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“ They picked up our trail somehow . . . they’re about 

three miles back on the flat just a-burnin’ the ground” 



I 


1'HE HEART OF 
THE RANGE 

BY 

WILLIAM PATTERSON WHITE 



FRONTISPIECE 


B Y 

GEORGE W. GAGE 


GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1921 






COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 




DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY 




17 1921 


v/ 


Ky 


©C1.A617352 


TO RANGER 

A GOOD HORSE AND A BETTER FRIEND 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. The Horse Thief 3 

II. The Yellow Dog 8 

III. The Tall Stranger 17 

IV. The Old Lady 33 

V. McFluke’s 45 

VI. Change of Plan 50 

VII. The Riddle 65 

VIII. The Starlight 74 

IX. Throwing Sand 8^ 

X. The Back Porch 9£ 

XI. The Lookout. 105 

XII. The Discovery 114 

XIII. A Bold Bad Man 121 

XIV. The Surprise 127 

XV. Fire! Fire! . 137 

XVI. The Bar S 151 

XVII. Signed Paper 168 

XVIII. The Showdown 182 

vii 


viii CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB PAGE 

XIX. The Shooting 190 

XX. Drawing the Cover 202 

XXI. Gone Away 211 

XXII. A Check ' 218 

XXIII. Taking Fences 228 

XXIV. Diplomacy 233 

XXV. Strategy 249 

XXVI. The Quarrel 259 

XXVII. Burglary . 268 

XXVIII. The Letters 277 

XXIX. Hue and Cry 288 

XXX. The Register 299 

XXXI. The Last Trick 304 

XXXII. The End of the Trail 310 


THE HEART OF 
THE RANGE 







4 


i 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


CHAPTER I 

THE HORSE THIEF 

I T WAS a warm summer morning in the town of Fare- 
well. Save a dozen horses tied to the hitching-rail in 
front of various saloons and the Blue Pigeon Store and 
Bill Lainey, the fat landlord of the hotel, who sat snoring in a 
reinforced telegraph chair on the sidewalk in the shade of his 
wooden awning, Main Street was a howling wilderness. 

Dust overlay everything. It had not rained in weeks. 
In the blacksmith shop, diagonally across the street from the 
hotel, Piney Jackson was shoeing a mule. The mule was in- 
visible, but one knew it was a mule because Piney Jackson 
has just come out and taken a two-by-four from the woodpile 
behind the shop. And it was a well-known fact that Piney 
never used a two-by-four on any animal other than a mule. 
But this by the way. 

In the barroom of the Happy Heart Saloon there were 
only two customers and the bartender. One of the former, 
a brown-haired, sunburnt young man with ingenuous blue 
eyes, was singing: 

'‘Jog on^ jog on^ the footpath way. 

An' merrily jump the stile 0 ! 

Yore cheerful heart goes all the day^ 

Yore sad tires in a mile 0 /” 


3 


4 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Mr. Racey Dawson, having successfully sung the first 
verse, rested both elbows on the bar and grinned at the bar- 
tender. That worthy grinned back, and, knowing Mr. 
Dawson, slid the bottle along the bar. 

“Have one yoreself. Bill,’’ Mr. Dawson nodded to the bar- 
tender. “Whu — where’s Swing? Oh, yeah.” 

Mr. Dawson, head up, chest out, stepping high, and walk- 
ing very stiffly as befitted a gentleman somewhat over- 
served with liquor, crossed the barroom to where bristle- 
haired Swing Tunstall sat on a chair and slumbered, his head 
on his arms and his arms on a table. 

Mr. Dawson stooped and blew into Mr. Tunstall ’s right 
ear. Mr. Tunstall began to snore gently. Growing irri- 
tated by this continued indifference on the part of Mr. Tun- 
stall, Mr. Dawson seized the chair by rung and back and in- 
continently dumped Mr. Tunstall all abroad on the saloon 
floor. 

Mr. Tunstall promptly hitched himself into a corner and 
drifted deeper into slumber. 

Mr. Dawson turned a perplexed face on the bartender. 

“Now what you gonna do with a feller like that?” Mr. 
Dawson asked, plaintively. 

Mr. Jack Richie, manager of the Cross-in-a-box ranch, en- 
tering at the moment, temporarily diverted Mr. Dawson’s 
attention. For Mr. Dawson had once ridden for the Cross- 
in-a-box outfit. Hence he was moved literally to fall upon 
the neck of Mr. Richie. 

“Lean on yore own breakfast,” urged Mr. Richie, studi- 
ously dissembling his joy at sight of his old friend, and care- 
fully steering Mr. Dawson against the bar. “Here, I know 
what you need. Drink hearty, Racey.” 

“’S’on me,” declared Mr. Dawson. “Everythin’s on me. 
I gug-got money, I have, and I aim to spend it free an’ 
plenty, ’cause there’s more where I’m goin’. An’ I ain’t 
gonna earn it punchin’ cows, neither.” 


THE HORSE THIEF 


5 


“Don’t do anything rash,” Mr. Richie advised, and took 
advantage of a friend’s privilege to be insulting. “I helped 
lynch a road-agent only last month.” 

“Which the huh-holdup business is too easy for a live man,” 
opined Mr. Dawson. “ We want somethin’ mum-more diff- 
diff-diff ’cult, me an’ Swing do, so we’re goin’ to Arizona where 
the gold grows. No more wrastlin’ cows. No more hard 
work for us. We^re gonna get rich quick, we are. What you 
laughin’ at?” 

“ I never laugh,” denied Mr. Richie. “ When yo’re stakin’ 
out claims don’t forget me.” 

“We won’t,” averred Mr. Dawson, solemnly. “Le’s have 
another.” 

They had another — several others. 

The upshot was that when Mr. Richie (who was the lucky 
possessor of a head that liquor did not easily affect) departed 
homeward at four p. m., he left behind him a sadly plastered 
Mr. Dawson. 

Mr. Tunstall, of course, was still sleeping deeply and 
noisily. But Mr. Dawson had long since lost interest in Mj. 
Tunstall. It is doubtful whether he remembered that Mr. 
Tunstall existed. The two had begun their party immedi- 
ately after breakfast. Mr. Tunstall had succumbed early, 
but Mr. Dawson had not once halted his efforts to make the 
celebration a huge success. So it is not a subject for sur- 
prise that Mr. Dawson, some thirty minutes after bidding 
Mr. Richie an affectionate farewell, should stagger out into 
the street arid ride away on the horse of someone else. 

The ensuing hours of the evening and the night were a mer- 
ciful blank to Mr. Dawson. His first conscious thought was 
when he awoke at dawn on a side-hill, a sharp rock prodding 
him in the small of the back and the bridle-reins of his dozing 
horse wound round one arm. Only it was not his horse. 
His horse was a red roan. This horse was a bay. It wasn’t 
his saddle, either. 


6 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Where’s my boss?” he demanded of the world at largt 
and sat up suddenly. 

The sharp movement wrung a groan from the depths of his 
being. The loss of his horse was drowned in the pains of his 
aching head. Never was such all-pervading ache. He knew 
the top was coming off. He knew it. He could feel it, and 
then did — ^with his fingers. He groaned again. 

His tongue was dry as cotton, and it hurt him to swallow. 
He stood up, but as promptly sat down. In a whisper — ^for 
speech was torture — ^he began to revile himself for a fool. 

“I might have known it,” was his plaint. “I had a feelin’ 
when I took that last glass it was one too many. I never did 
know when to stop. I’d like to know how I got here, and 
where my hoss is, and who belongs to this one? ” 

He eyed the mount with disfavour. He had never cared 
for bays. 

“An’ that ain’t much of a saddle, either,” he went on with 
his soliloquy. “Cheap saddle — looks like a boy’s saddle — 
an’ a old saddle — bet Noah used one just like it — try to rope 
with that saddle an’ you’d pull the horn to hellen gone. 
Wonder what’s in that saddle-pocket.” 

He pulled himself erect slowly and tenderly. His knees 
were very shaky. His head throbbed like a squeezed boil, 
but — ^he wanted to learn what was in that saddle-pocket. 
Possibly he might obtain therein a clue to the horse’s owner. 

He slipped the strap of the pocket-flap, flipped it open, 
inserted his fingers, and drew forth a small package wrapped 
in newspaper and tied with the blue string affected by the 
Blue Pigeon Store in Farewell. 

Mr. Dawson balanced the package on two fingers for a 
reflective instant, then he snapped the string and opened the 
package. 

“Socks an’ a undershirt,” he said, disgustedly, and started 
to say more, but paused, for there was something queer about 
that undershirt. His head was still spinning, and his eyes 


THE HORSE THIEF 


7 


€ 

Vere sandy, but he perceived quite plainly that there were 
narrow blue ribbons running round the neck of that under- 
shirt. He unrolled the socks and found them much longer in 
the leg than the kind habitually worn by men. Mr. Dawson 
agitatedly dived his hand once more into the saddle-pocket. 
And this time he pulled out a tortoise-shell shuttle round 
which was wrapped several inches of lingerie edging. But 
Mr. Dawson did not call it lingerie edging. He called it 
tatting and swore again. 

“That settles it,” he said, cheerlessly. ‘TVe stole some 
woman’s cayuse.” 


CHAPTER II 


THE YELLOW DOG 

I T WAS a chastened Racey Dawson that returned to 
Farewell. He went directly to the blacksmith shop. 

“ ’Lo, Hoss Thief,” was Piney Jackson’s cheerful greet- 
ing. 

“Whose is it?” demanded Racey Dawson, wiping his hot 
face. “Whose hoss have I stole?” 

“Oh, you’ll catch it,” chuckled the humorous Piney. 
“Yep, you betcha. You’ve got a gall, you have. Camly 
prancing out of a saloon an’ glooming onto a lady’s hoss. 
What kind o’ doin’s is that, I’d like to know?” 

“You blasted idjit!” cried the worried Racey. “Whose 
hoss is this?” 

“I kind o’ guessed maybe something disgraceful like this 
here would happen when I seen you and yore friend sashay 
into the Happy Heart. And the barkeep said you had two 
snifters and a glass o’ milk, too. Honest, Racey, you’d 
oughta be more careful how you mix yore drinks.” 

“Don’t try to be a bigger jack than you are,” Racey 
adjured him in a tone that he strove to make contemptuous. 
“You think yo’re awful funny — just too awful funny, don’t 
you? I’m askin’ you, you fish-faced ape, whose hoss this 
is I got here? ” 

“Don’t you know?” grinned Piney, elevating both eye- 
brows. “Lordy, I wouldn’t be in yore shoes for something. 
Nawsir. She’ll snatch you baldheaded, she will. The old 
lady was wild when she come out an’ found her good hoss 
missing. And she shore said what she thought of you some 

8 


THE YELLOW DOG 9 

more when she seen she had to ride home on that old crow’s 
dinner of a moth-eaten accordeen you left behind.” 

Racey Dawson was too reduced in spirit to properly take 
umbrage at this insult to his horse. He could only repeat 
his request that Piney make not of himself a bigger fool than 
usual. And when Piney did nothing but laugh immoder- 
ately, Racey grinned foolishly. 

‘Tf my head didn’t ache so hard,” he assured the chortling 

blacksmith, “I’d shore talk to you, but Say, lookit here, 

Piney, quit yore foolin’, will you.? Who owns this boss, any- 
way?” 

“Here comes Kansas,” said Piney. “Betcha five even he 
arrests you for a hoss thief.” 

“Gimme odds an’ I’ll go you,” Racey returned, promptly. 

“Even,” stuck out Piney. 

“Naw, he might do it. You Farewell jiggers hang to- 
gether too hard for me to take any chances. ’Lo, Kansas.” 

“Howdy, Racey,” nodded Kansas Casey, the deputy 
sheriff. “How long you been rustlin’ bosses?” 

“A damsight longer’n I like,” Racey replied, frankly. 
“Who does own this hoss? ” 

“Y’ oughta asked that question yesterday,” said Kansas, 
severely, but with a twinkle in his black eyes that belied his 
tone. “ This here would be mighty serious business for you if 
the Sheriff was in town. Jake’s so particular about being 
legal an’ all. Yessir, Racey, old-timer, I expect you’d spend 
some time in the calaboose — if you wasn’t lynched previous.” 

“Don’t scare the poor feller,” pleaded Piney in a tone of 
deepest compassion. “He’ll be cryin’ in a minute.” 

“In a minute I’ll be doing somethin’ besides cry if you 
fellers don’t stop yore funning. This here is past a joke, this 
is, and ” 

“ Shore it’s past a joke,” Kansas concurred, warmly, “an’ 

I ain’t funning, not for a minute. You go give that hoss back, 
Racey, or you’ll be sorry.” 


10 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Well, for Gawd’s sake tell me who to give it back to!” 
bawled Racey, and immediately batted his eyes and gingerly 
patted the back of his head. 

“Head ache?” queried Kansas. “I expect it might after 
last night. You go give that hoss back like a good boy.” 

So saying Kansas Casey turned his back and retreated 
rapidly in the direction of the Starlight Saloon. 

Racey Dawson glared vindictively after the departing 
deputy. Then he switched his angry blue eyes to the black- 
smith’s smiling countenance. 

“You can all,” said Racey Dawson, distinctly, “go plumb to 
hell.” 

He turned the purloined pony on a dime and loped up the 
street, followed by the ribald laughter of Piney Jackson. 

“They think they’re so terrible funny,” Racey muttered, 
mournfully, as he dismounted and tied at the hitching rail in 
front of the Happy Heart. “Now if I can only find Swing ” 

But Swing Tunstall, it appeared on consulting the bar- 
tender, had gone off hunting him (Racey). The latter did 
not appeal to the bartender to divulge the name of the horse’s 
owner. He had, he believed, furnished the local populace 
sufficient amusement for one day. He had a small drink, 
for he felt that he needed a bracer, and with the liquor he 
imbibed inspiration. 

Miss Blythe, Mike Flynn’s partner in the Blue Pigeon 
Store! She would know whose horse it was, for certainly the 
horse’s owner had bought the undershirt and the stockings 
at the Blue Pigeon. Furthermore, Miss Blythe looked like a 
right-minded individual. She would take no pleasure in 
devilling a man. Not she. 

Racey Dawson set down his glass and hurried to the Blue 
Pigeon Store. Miss Blythe, at his entrance, ceased checking 
tomato cans and came forward. 

“Ma’am,” said Racey, “will you come to the door a 
minute? No, no, don’t be scared!” he added as the lady 


THE YELLOW DOG 


11 


drew back a step. “I’m kind of in trouble, an’ I want you 
to help me out. I’m — my name’s Racey Dawson, an’ I used 
to ride for theCross-in-a-box before I got a job up at the Bend. 
Jack Richie knows me. I aint crazy — ^honest.” 

For Miss Blythe continued to look doubtful. “I ” she 

began. 

“Lookit,” he interrupted, “yesterday I got a heap drunk 
an’ I rode off on somebody’s hoss without meaning to — I 
mean I thought it was my hoss and it wasn’t. An’ I thought 
maybe you’d tell me who the hoss belongs to so’s I can re- 
turn him and get mine back. She took mine, they tell me. 
Not that I blame her a mite,” he added, hastily. 

Pretty Miss Blythe smiled suddenly. “I did hear some- 
thing about a switch in horses yesterday afternoon,” she 
admitted. “But I thought Mr. Flynn said Tom Dowling 
was the man’s name. Certainly I remember you now, Mr. 
Dawson, although at first your — ^your beard ” 

“Yeah, I know,” he put in, hurriedly. “I ain’t shaved 
since I left the Bend, and I slept mostly on my face last 
night, but it’s li’l ol’ me all right behind the whiskers and 
real estate. Yeah, that’s the hoss yonder — the one next the 
pinto.” 

“ I know the horse,” said Miss Blythe, drawing back from 
the doorway. “It belongs to the Dales over at Medicine 
Spring on Soogan Creek.” 

“Oh, I know themy" Racey declared, confidently (he had 
been at the Dales’ precisely once). “The girl married Chuck 
Morgan. Shore, Mis’ Dale’s hoss, huh.?^ I’ll take it right 
back soon’s I get shaved. I s’pose I’ll have a jomightyful 
time explaining it to the old lady.” 

“It isn’t the mother’s horse. It’s the daughter’s. She 
was in town yesterday.” 

“You mean Chuck’s wife. Mis’ Morgan?” 

“I mean Miss Molly Dale, the other daughter.” 

“I didn’t know they had another daughter,” puzzled 


n 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Racey, thinking of what Piney Jackson had said anent an 
“‘old lady.’’ “They must ’a’ kept her in the background 
when I was there that time. What is she — a old maid.^^ ” 

“Oh, middle-aged, perhaps,” was the straight-faced reply. 

“Shucks, I might have known it,” grumbled Racey; 
“middle-aged old maid! I know what they’re like. I had 
one once for a school-teacher. I can feel her lickings yet. 

Shewasthecontrariest female I ever met. Shucks, I Well, 

if I gotta, I gotta. Might’s well get it over with now as 
later. Thanks, ma’am, for helping me out.” 

Racey Dawson shambled dejectedly forth to effect the 
feeding of Miss Molly Dale’s horse at the hotel corral. For 
his own breakfast he went to Sing Luey’s Canton Restaurant. 
Because while Bill Lainey offered no objections to feeding the 
horse, Mrs. Lainey utterly refused to provide snacks at odd 
hours for good-for-nothing, stick-a-bed punchers who were 
too lazy to eat at the regular meal-time. So there, now. 

“But I ain’t gonna shave,” he told himself, as he disposed 
of fried steak and potatoes sloshed down by several cups of 
coffee. “If she’s a. old maid like they say it don’t matter 
how tough I look.” 

He was reflectively stirring the grounds in the bottom 
of his sixth cup when a small and frightened yellow dog 
dashed into the restaurant and fled underneath Racey’s 
table, where he cowered next to Racey’s boots and cuddled 
a lop-eared head against Racey’s knee. 

Racey had barely time to glance down and discover that 
the yellow nondescript was no more than a pup when a burly 
youth charged into the restaurant and demanded in no un- 
certain tones to know where that adjective dog had hidden 
himself. 

Racey took an instant dislike to the burly youth, still — it 
was his dog. And it is a custom of the country to let every 
man, as the saying is, skin his own deer. He that takes 
exception to this custom and horns in on what cannot right- 


THE YELLOW DOG 


13 


fully be termed his particular business, will find public 
opinion dead against him and his journey unseasonably full 
of incident. 

Racey moved a leg. “This him, stranger?’’ 

The burly youth (it was evident that he was not wholly 
sober) glared at Racey Dawson. “Shore it’s him!” he de- 
clared. “Whatell you hidin’ him for? Get outa the way!” 

Whereupon the burly youth advanced upon Racey. 

This was different. Oh, quite. The burly youth had by 
his brusque manner and rude remarks included Racey in his 
(the burly youth’s) business. 

Racey met the burly youth rather more than halfway. He 
hit him so hard on the nose that the other flipped backward 
through the doorway and landed on his ear on the sidewalk. 

Racey followed him out. The burly youth, bleeding 
copiously from the nose, sat up and fumbled uncertainly for 
his gun. 

“No,” said Racey with decision, aiming his sixshooter at 
the word. “You leave that gun alone, and lemme tell you, 
stranger, while we’re together, that I want to buy that pup of 
yores. A gent like you ain’t fit company for a self-respecting 
dog to associate with. Nawsir.” 

“You got the drop,” grumbled the burly youth. 

“Which is one on you,” Racey observed, good-humouredly. 

“Maybe I’ll be seein’ you again,” suggested the other. 

“Don’t lemme see you first,” advised Racey. “Never 
mind getting up. Just sit nice and quiet like a good boy, and 
keep the li’l hands spread out all so pretty with the thumbs 
locked over yore head. ’At’s the boy. How much for yore 
dog, feller?” 

“What you done to my dog? ” A woman’s voice broke on 
Racey ’s ears. But he did not remove his slightly narrowed 
eyes from the face of the burly youth. 

“ What you done to my dog ? ’ ’ The question was repeated, 
and the speaker came close to the burly youth and looked 


14 


THE HEAKT OF THE RANGE 


down at him. Now that the woman was within his range of 
vision Racey perceived that she was the Happy Heart look- 
out, a good-looking creature with browm hair and a lithe 
figure. 

The girl’s fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles 
showed whitely against the pink. Two red spots flared on 
the white skin of her cheeks. 

“Dam yore soul!” swore the lady. “I want my dog! 
How many times I gotta ask you, huh.^^ Where is he? Say 
somethin’, you dumb lump of slum gullion!” 

“He ain’t yore dog!” denied the burly youth. “He never 
was yores! He’s mine, you !” 

Which last was putting it pretty strongly, even for the 
time, the place, and the girl. She promptly swuing a brisk 
right toe, kicked the burly youth under the chin, and flattened 
him out. 

“That’ll learn you to call me names!” she snarled. “So 
long as I act like a lady, I’m a-gonna be treated like one, and 
I’ll break the neck of the man who acts different, and you can 
stick a pin in that, you dirty-mouthed beast!” 

Muttering profanely true to form, the aforementioned 
beast essayed to rise. But here again Racey and his ready 
gun held him to the ground in a sitting position. 

“You leave her alone,” commanded Racey. “You got 
what was coming to yuh. Let it go at that. The lady says 
it’s her dog, anyway.” 

“It’s my dog, I tell yuh! I ” 

“Yo’re a liar!” averred the girl. “You kicked the dog 
out when he was sick, and I took him in and tended him and 
got him well. If that don’t make him my dog what does? ” 

“Correct,” said Racey. “Call him.” 

The girl put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. 
Forth from the Canton came the dog on the jump and 
bounced into the girl’s arms and began to lick her ear with 
despatch and enthusiasm. 


THE YELLOW DOG 15 

“You see how it is,” Racey indicated to the man on the 
ground. “ It’s the lady ’s dog. You can go now.” 

The burly youth stared stupidly. 

“You heard what I said,” Racey told him, impatiently. 
“G’on. Go some’ers else. Get outa here.” 

“Say,” remarked the burly youth in what was intended 
to be a menacing growl, “this party ain’t over yet.” 

“Ain’t you been enough of a fool already to-day?” inter- 
rupted Racey. “You ain’t asking for it, are you?” 

“You can’t run no blazer on me,” denied the other, furi- 
ously. 

Racey promptly bolstered his sixshooter. “Now’s yore 
best time,” he said, quietly. 

When the smoke cleared away there was a rent in the sleeve 
of Racey’s shirt and the burly youth sat rocking his body to 
and fro and groaning through gritted teeth. For there was a 
red-hot hole in his right shoulder which hurt him considerably. 

Racey Dawson gazed dumbly down at the muzzle of his 
sixshooter from which a slim curl of gray smoke spiralled 
lazily upward. Then his eyes veered to the man he had shot 
and to the man’s sixshooter lying on the edge of the sidewalk. 
It, too, like his own gun, was thinly smoking at the muzzle. 
The burly youth put a hand to his shoulder. The fingers 
came away red. Racey was glad he had not killed him. He 
had not intended to. But accidents will happen. 

He stepped forward and kicked the burly youth’s dis- 
carded sixshooter into the middle of the street. He looked 
about him. The girl and her dog had vanished. 

Kansas Casey had taken her place apparently. From 
windows and doorways along the street peered interested 
faces. One knew that they were interested despite their 
careful lack of all expression. It is never well to openly ex- 
press approval of a shooting. The shooter undoubtedly has 
friends, and little breaches of etiquette are always remem- 
bered. 


16 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Racey Dawson looked at Kansas Casey and shoved his 
sixshooter down into its holster. 

“It was an even break,” announced Racey. 

“Shore,” Kansas nodded. “I seen it. There’ll be no 
trouble — ^from us,” he added, significantly. 

The deputy sheriff knelt beside the wounded man. Racey 
Dawson went into the Happy Heart. He felt that he needed 
a drink. When he came out five minutes later the burly 
youth had been carried away. Remained a stain of dark red 
on the sidewalk where he had been sitting. Piggy Wads- 
worth, the plump owner of the dance-hall, legs widespread 
and arms akimbo, was inspecting the red stain thoughtfully. 
He was joined by the storekeeper, Calloway, and two other 
men. None of them was aware of Racey Dawson standing 
in front of the Happy Heart. 

“Was it there?” inquired Calloway. 

“Yeah,” said Piggy. “Right there. I seen the whole 
fraycas. Racey stood here an’ ” 

At this point Racey Dawson went elsewhere. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TALL STRANGER 

Y OU’LL have to manage it yoreself.” Lanpher, the 
manager of the 88 ranch, was speaking, and there was 
finality in his tone. 

“You mean you don’t wanna appear in the deal a-tall,” 
sneered his companion. 

Racey Dawson, who had been kneeling on the ground 
engaged in bandaging a cut from a kick on the near foreleg of 
the Dale pony when the two men led their horses into the 
corral, craned his neck past the pony’s chest and glanced at 
Lanpher’s tall companion. For the latter’s words provoked 
curiosity. What species of deal was toward? Having ridden 
for Lanpher in the days preceding his employment by the 
Cross-in-a-box and consequently provided with many 
opportunities for studying the gentleman at arm’s-length, 
Racey naturally assumed that the deal was a shady one. 
Personally, he believed Lanpher capable of anything. Which 
of course was unjust to the manager. His courage was not 
quite sufficient to hold him abreast of the masters in wicked- 
ness. But he was mean and cruel in a slimy way, and if 
left alone was prone to make life miserable for someone. 
Invariably the someone was incapable of proper defense. 
From Farewell to Marysville, throughout the length and 
breadth of the great Lazy River country, Lanpher was 
known unfavourably and disliked accordingly. 

To his companion’s sneering remark Lanpher made no 
intelligible reply. He merely grunted as he reached for the 
gate to pull it shut. His companion half turned (his back 

17 


18 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


had from the first been toward Racey Dawson), and Racey 
perceived the cold and Roman profile of a long-jawed head. 
Then the man turned full in his direction and behold, the 
hard features vanished, and the man displayed a good-looking 
countenance of singular charm. The chin was a thought too 
wide and heavy, a trait it shared in common with the mouth, 
but otherwise the stranger’s full face would have found 
favour in the eyes of almost any woman, however critical. 

Racey Dawson, at first minded to reveal his presence in 
the corral, thought better of it almost immediately. While 
not by habit an eavesdropper he felt no shame in fortuitously 
overhearing anything Lanpher or the stranger might be 
moved to say. Lanpher merited no consideration under any 
circumstances, and the stranger, in appearance a similar 
breed of dog as far as morals went, certainly deserved no 
better treatment. So Racey remained quietly where he was, 
and was glad that besides the pony to whom he was minister- 
ing there were several others between him and the men at the 
gate. 

“Why don’t you wanna appear in this business?” persisted 
the stranger, pivoting on one heel in order to keep face to face 
with Lanpher. 

“I gotta live here,” was the Lanpher reply. 

“Well, ain’t I gotta live here, too, and I don’t see anything 
round here to worry me. S’pose old Chin Whisker does go 
on the prod. What can he do?” 

“’Tsall right,” mumbled Lanpher, shutting the gate and 
shoving home the bar. “You don’t know this country as well 
as I do. I got trouble enough running the 88 without bor- 
rowing any more.” 

“Now I told you I was gonna get his li’l ranch peaceable 
if I could. I got it all planned out. I don’t do anything 
rough unless I gotto. But I’m gonna get old Chin Whisker 
out o* there, and you can stick a pin in that.” 

“’Tsall right. ’Tsall right. You wanna remember ol’ 


THE TALL STRANGER 


19 


Chin Whisker ain’t the only hoss yo’re trying to ride. If you 
think that other outfit is gonna watch you pick daisies in 
their front yard without doing anything, you got another 
guess. But I’ll do what I said — and no more.” 

“I s’pose you think that by sticking away off yonder 
where the grass is long nobody will suspicion you. If you 
do, yo’re crazy. Folks ain’t so cross-brained as all that.” 

“Not so dam loud!” Lanpher cautioned, excitedly. 

“Say, whatsa matter with you?” demanded the stranger, 
leaning back against the gate and spreading his long arms 
along the top bar. “Which yo’re the most nervous gent I 
ever did see. The hotel ain’t close enough for anybody to 
hear a word, and there’s only bosses in the corral. Get a-hold 
of yoreself. Don’t be so skittish.” 

“I ain’t skittish. I’m sensible. I know ” Lanpher 

broke off abruptly. 

“What do you know?” 

“What yo’re due to find out.” 

“Now lookit here, Mr. Lanpher,” said the stranger in a 
low, cold tone, “you said those last words a leetle too gayful 
to suit me. If yo’re planning any skulduggery — don’t.” 

“I ain’t. Not a bit of it. But I got my duty to my com- 
pany. I can’t get mixed up in any fraycas on yore account, 
because if I do my ranch will lose money. That’s the flat of 
it.” 

“Oh, it is, huh? Yore ranch will lose money if you back 
me up, hey? And you ain’t thinkin’ nothin’ of yore precious 
skin, are yuh? Oh, no, not a-tall. I wonder what yore 
company would say to the li’l deal between you and me that 
started this business. I wonder what they’d think of Mr. 
Lanpher and his sense of duty. Yeah, I would wonder a 
whole lot.” 

“Well ” began Lanpher, lamely. 

“ Hell ! ” snarled the stranger. “ You make me sick ! Now 
you listen to me. Yo’re in this as deep as I am. If you 


20 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

think you ain’t, try to pull yore wagon out. Just try it, 
thassall.” 

“I ain’t doing none of the work, that’s flat,” Lanpher 
denied, doggedly. 

“You gotta back me up alia same,” declared the stranger. 

“That wasn’t in the bargain,” fenced Lanpher. 

“It is now,” chuckled the stranger. “If I lose, you lose, 
too. Lookit,” he added in a more conciliatory tone, “can’t 
you see how it is ? I need you, an’ you need me. All I’m ask- 
ing of you is to back me up when I want you to. Outside of 
that you can sit on yore shoulder-blades and enjoy life.” 

“We didn’t bargain on that,” harked back Lanpher. 

“But that was then, and this is now. Which may not be 
logic, but it is necessity, an’ Necessity, Mr. Lanpher, is the 
mother of all kinds of funny things. So you and I we got to 
ride together.” 

Lanpher pushed back his hat and looked over the hills and 
far away. The well-known carking care was written large 
upon his countenance. 

Slowly his eyes slid round to meet for a brief moment the 
eyes of his companion. 

“I can’t answer for my men,” said Lanpher, shortly. 

“Can you answer for yoreself?” inquired the stranger 
quickly. 

“I’ll back you up.” Grudgingly. 

“ Then that’s all right. You can keep the men from throw- 
ing in with the other side, anyway, can’t you?” 

“I can do that much.” 

“Which is quite a lot for a ranch manager to be able to do,” 
was the stranger’s blandly sarcastic observation. “C’mon. 

We’ve gassed so much I’m dry as a covered bridge. I 

What does Thompson want now? ’Lo, Punch.” 

“ ’Lo, Jack. Howdy, Lanpher.” Racey could not see the 
newcomer, but he recognized the voice. It was that of 
Punch-the-breeze Thompson, a gentleman well known to 


THE TALL STRANGER 


21 


make his living by the ingenious capitalization of an utter 
lack of moral virtue. “Say, Jack,” continued Thompson, 
“Nebraska has been plugged.” 

“ Plugged ? ’ ’ Great amazement on the part of the stranger. 

“Plugged.” 

“Who done it.?” 

“Feller by the name of Dawson.” 

“Racey Dawson.?” nipped in Lanpher. 

“Yeah, him.” 

Lanpher chuckled slightly. 

“Why the laugh?” asked Jack Harpe. 

“I’d always thought Nebraska could shoot.” 

“Nebraska is supposed to be some swift,” admitted the 
stranger. “How’d it happen. Punch?” 

Thompson told him, and on the whole, gave a truthful 
account. 

“What kind of feller is this Dawson?” the stranger 
inquired after a moment’s silence following the close of the 
story. 

“A skipjack of a no-account cow-wrastler,” promptly re- 
plied Lanpher. “He thinks he’s hell on the Wabash.” 

“Allasame he must be old pie to put the kybosh on 
Nebraska thataway.” 

“Luck,” sneered Lanpher. “Just luck.” 

“Is he square?” probed the stranger. 

“Square as a billiard-ball,” said Lanpher. “Why, Jack, 
he’s so crooked he can’t lay in bed straight.” 

At which Racey Dawson was moved to rise and declare 
himself. Then the humour of it struck him. He grinned 
and hunkered down, his ears on the stretch. 

“Well,” said the stranger, refraining from comment on 
Lanpher ’s estimate of the Dawson qualities, “we’ll have to 
get somebody in Nebraska’s place.” 

“I’m as good as Nebraska,” Punch-the-breeze Thompson 
stated, modestly. 


22 


THE HfevHT OF THE RANGE 

“No,” the stranger said, decidedly. “Yo’re all right. 
Punch. But even if we can get old Chin Whisker drunk, the 
hand has gotta be quicker than the eye. Y’ understand.? ” 

Thompson, it appeared, did understand. He grunted 
sulkily. 

“We’ll have to give Peaches Austin a show,” resumed the 
stranger. “Nemmine giving me a argument. Punch. I said 
I’d use Austin. C’mon, le’s go get a drink.” 

The three men moved away. Bacey Dawson cautiously 
eased his long body up from behind the pony. With slightly 
narrowed eyes he stared at the gate behind which Jack Harpe 
and his two friends had been standing. 

“Now I wonder,” mused Bacey Dawson, “I shore am 
wonderin’ what kind of skulduggery li’l Mr. Lanpher of the 
88 is a-trying to crawl out of and what Mr. Stranger is a-try- 
ing to drag him into. Nebraska, too, huh? I was wondering 
what that feller’s name was.” 

He knelt down again and swiftly completed the bandaging 
of the cut on the pony’s near fore. 

As he rode round the corner of the hotel to reach Main 
Street he saw Luke Tweezy single-footing into town from the 
south. The powdery dust of the trail filled in and overlaid 
the lines and creases of Luke Tweezy’s foxy-nosed and 
leathery visage. Layers of dust almost completely con- 
cealed the original colour of the caked and matted hide of 
Luke Tweezy’s well-conditioned horse. It was eviden^that 
Luke Tweezy had coipe from afar. 

In common with most range riders Bacey Dj^wlon pos- 
sessed an automatic eye to detail. Quite without conscious 
effort his brain registered and filed away in the card-index of 
his subconscious mind the picture presented by the passing 
of Luke Tweezy, the impression made thereby, and the 
inference drawn therefrom. The inference was almost 
trivial — ^merely that Luke Tweezy had come from Marys- 
ville, the town where he lived and had his being. But 


23 


THE TALL STBAlfoER 

triviality is frequently paradoxical and always relative. 
If Dundee had not raised an arm to urge his troopers on at 
Killiekrankie the world would know a different England. 
A single thread it was that solved for Theseus the mystery 
of the Cretan labyrinth. 

Racey Dawson did not like Luke Tweezy. From the 
sparse and sandy strands of the Tweezy hair to the long and 
varied lines of the Tweezy business there was nothing about 
Mr. Tweezy that he did like. For Luke Tweezy ’s business 
was ready money and its possibilities. He drove hard 
bargains with his neighbours and harder ones with strangers. 
He bought county scrip at a liberal discount and lent his 
profits to the needy at the highest rate allowed by law. 

Luke Tweezy’s knowledge of what was allowed by terri- 
torial law was not limited to money-lending. He had been 
admitted to the bar, and no case was too small, too large, or 
too filthy for him to handle. 

In his dislike of Luke Tweezy Racey Dawson was not 
solitary. Luke Tweezy was as generally unpopular as Lan- 
pher of the 88. But there was a difference. Where Lan- 
pher’s list of acquaintances, nodding and otherwise, was 
necessarily confined to the Lazy River country, Luke Tweezy 
knew almost every man, woman, and child in the territory. 
It was his business to know everybody, and Luke Tweezy was 
always attending to his business. 

He had nodded and spoken to Racey Dawson as they two 
passed, and Racey had returned the greeting gravely. 

“Slimy oF he-buzzard,” Racey Dawson observed to him- 
self and reached for his tobacco. 

But there was no tobacco. The sack that he knew he had 
put in his vest pocket after breakfast had vanished. Lack of 
tobacco is a serious matter. Racey wheeled his mount and 
spurred to the Blue Pigeon Store. 

Five minutes later, smoking a grateful cigarette, he again 
started to ride out of town. As he curved his horse round a 


24 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


freight wagon in front of the Blue Pigeon he saw three men 
issue from the doorway of the Happy Heart Saloon. Two 
of the men were Lanpher and the stranger. The third was 
Luke Tweezy. The latter stopped at the saloon hitching- 
rail to untie his horse. “See yuh later, Luke,” the stranger 
flung over his shoulder to Luke Tweezy as he passed on. He 
and Lanpher headed diagonally across the street toward the 
hotel. It seemed odd to Racey Dawson that Luke Tweezy 
by no word or sign made acknowledgment of the stranger’s 
remark. 

Racey tickled his mount with the rowels of one spur and 
stirred him into a trot. Have to be moving along if he 
wanted to get there some time that day. He wished he 
didn’t have to go alone, so he did. The old lady would 
surely lay him out, and he wished for company to share his 
misery. Why couldn’t Swing Tunstall have stayed reason- 
ably in Farewell instead of traipsing off over the range like a 
tomfool. Might not be back for a week. Swing mightn’t. 
Idiotic caper (with other adjectives) of Swing’s, anyway. 
Why hadn’t he used his head? Oh, Racey Dawson was an 
exceedingly irritable young man as he rode out of Farewell. 
The aches and pains were still throbbingly alive in his own 
particular head. The immediate future was not alluring. | 
It was a hard world. j 

When he and his mount were breasting the flrst slight rise 
of the northern slope of Indian Ridge — ^which ridge marks 
with its long, broad-backed bulk the southern boundary 
of the flats south of Farewell and forces the Marysville j 
trail to travel five miles to go two — a rider emerged from 
a small boulder-strewn draw wherein tamaracks grew ; 
thinly. i 

Racey stared — and forgot his irritation and his headache. ! 
The draw was not more than a quarter-mile distant, and he 
perceived without diflSculty that the rider was a woman. 
She quirted her mount into a gallop, and then seesawed her 


THE TALL STRANGER 


25 


right arm vigorously. Above the pattering drum of her 
horse’s hoofs a shout came faintly to his ears. He pulled up 
and waited. 

When the woman was close to him he saw that it was the 
good-looking, brown-haired Happy Heart lookout, the girl 
whose dog he had protected. She dragged her horse to a halt 
at his side and smiled. And, oddly enough, it was an amaz- 
ingly sweet smile. It had nothing in common with the hard 
smile of her profession. 

“I’m sorry I had to leave without thanking you for what 
you done for me back there,” said she, with a jerk of her head 
toward distant Farewell. 

“Why, that’s all right,” Racey told her, awkwardly. 

“It meant a lot to me,” she went on, her smile fading. 
“You wouldn’t let that feller hurt me or my dog, and I 
think the world of that dog.” 

“Yeah.” Thus Racey, very much embarrassed by 
her gratitude and quite at a loss as to the proper thing to 
say. 

“Yes, and I’m shore grateful, stranger. I — I won’t forget 
it. That dog he likes me, he does. And I’m teaching him 
tricks. He’s awful cunnin’. And company! Say, when 
I’m feeling rotten that there dog knows, and he climbs up in 
my lap and licks my ear and tries his best to be a comfort. I 
tell you that dog likes me, and that means a whole lot — to 
me. I — I ain’t forgetting it.” 

Her face was dark red. She dropped her head and began 
to fumble with her reins. 

“You needn’t ’a’ come riding alia way out here just for 
this,” chided Racey, feeling that he must say something to 
relieve the situation. 

“It wasn’t only this,” she denied, Tiredly. “They was 
something else. And I couldn’t talk to you in Farewell 
without him and his friends finding it out. That’s why I 
borrowed one of Mike Flynn’s bosses an’ followed you 


26 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


thisaway — so^s we could be private. Le’s ride along. I! 
expect you was going somewhere.’’ i 

They rode southward side by side a space of time in 
silence. Racey had nothing to say. He was too busy; 
speculating as to the true significance of the girl’s presence. ' 
TOiat did she want — money? These saloon floozies always » 
did. He hoped she wouldn’t want much. For he ruefully i 
knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able ' 
to resist a woman’s appeal. He glanced at her covertly. 
Her little chin was trembling. Poor kid. That’s all she 
was. Just a kid. Helluva life for a kid. Shucks. 

“Lookit here,” said Racey, suddenly, '‘you in hard luck, 
huh? Don’t you worry. Yore luck is bound to turn. It 
always does. How much you want?” 

So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers. 
The girl shook her head without looking at him. 

“It ain’t money,” she said, dully. “I make enough to 
keep me going.” Then with a curious flash of temper she 
continued, “That’s always the way with a man, ain’t it? 
If he thinks yo’re in trouble — ^Give her some money. If 
yo’re sick — Give her money. If yo’re dyin’ — Give her 
money. Money ! Money ! Money ! I’m so sick of money 

I Don’t mind me, stranger. I don’t mean nothing. I’m 

a — a li’l upset to-day. I — it’s hard for me to begin.” 

Begin! What was the girl driving at? 

“Yes,” said she. “It’s hard. I ain’t no snitch. I never 
was even when I hadn’t no use for a man — ^like now. But — 
but you stuck up for me and my dog, and I gotta pay 
you back. I gotta. Listen,” she pursued, swiftly, “do you 
know who that feller was you shot?” 

“No.” Racey shook his head. “But you don’t owe me 
anything. Forget it. I dunno what yo’re drivin’ at, and I 
don’t wanna know if it bothers you to tell me. But if I can 
do anything — anything a-tall — to help you, why, then tell 


THE TALL STRANGER 


27 


know,” she nodded. “You’d always help a feller. 
Yo’re that kind. But I’m all right. That jigger you 
plugged is Tom Jones.” 

The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of 
Tom Jones should have been informative of much. But, 
Fieldings excluded, there are many Tom Joneses. Racey 
did not react. 

“Dunno him,” denied Racey Dawson. “I heard his 
name was Nebraska.” 

“Nebraska is what the boys call him,” she said. “He 
used to be foreman of the Currycomb outfit south of Fort 
Seymour.” 

“I’ve heard of Nebraska Jones and the Currycomb bunch 
all right,” he admitted, soberly. “And I’d shore like to 
know what was the matter with Nebraska to-day.” 

“So would I. You were lucky.” 

Racey nodded absently. The Currycomb outfit! That 
charming aggregation of gunfighters had borne the hardest 
reputation extant in a neighbouring territory. Regarding 
the Currycomb men had been accustomed to speak behind 
their hands and under their breaths. For the Currycomb 
politically had been a power. Which perhaps was the 
reason why, although the rustling of many and many a cow 
and the killing of more than one man were laid at their 
unfriendly door, nothing had ever been proved against 
them. 

They had prospered exceedingly, these Currycomb boys, 
tiH the election of an opposition sheriff. Which election had 
put heart into the more decent set and a crimp in the Curry- 
comb. It did not matter that legally the Currycomb pos- 
sessed a clean bill of health. The community had decided 
that the Currycomb must be abolished. It was — cow, 
cayuse, and cowboy. 

While some had remained on the premises at an approxi- 
mate depth beneath the grass of two feet (for the ground was 


28 


THE HEAET OF THE RANGE 


hard], the other Curry combers had scattered wide and far 
and TOcir accustomed places knew them no more. 

Now it seemed that at least one of the Currycomb boys, 
and that one the most notorious character of the lot, had 
scattered as far as Farewell and obtruded his personality 
upon that of Racey Dawson. Nebraska Jones! A cold 
smile stretched the corners of Racey ’s mouth as he thought 
on what he had done. He had beaten to the draw the fore- 
man of the Currycomb. Which undoubtedly must have 
been the first time Nebraska had ever been shaded. 

The girl was watching his face. “Don’t begin to get the 
notion you beat him to it,” she advised, divining his thought. 
“He was stunned sort of that first time, an’ the second time 
his gun caught a little. Nebraska is slow lightnin’ on the 
pull. Keep thinkin’ you was lucky like you done at first.” 

Racey laughed shamefacedly. “Yo’re too much of a 
mind reader for me. But what you telling all this to me 
for.?^ I ain’t the sheriff with a warrant for Nebraska Jones.” 

“I’m telling you so you’ll know what to expect. So you’ll 
get out of town and stay out. Because, shore as yo’re a foot 
high, you won’t live a minute longer than is plumb necessary 
if you don’t.” 

“I beat Nebraska once, and he won’t get well of that lead 
in the shoulder so jo-awful soon.” 

“ Can you beat a shot in the dark? Can you dodge a knife 
m the night? It ain’t a question of Nebraska Jones himself. 
It’s the gang he’s managed to pick up in this town. They 
are meaner than a nest of cross rattlesnakes. I know ’em. 
I know what they’ll do. Right this minute they’re fixing up 
some way to give you yore come-uppance.” 

“Think so?” 

“Think so! Say, would I come traipsing out here just for 
my health — or yores? Figure it out.” 

“Seems like you know a lot about Nebraska and his gang,” 
he cast at a venture, glancing at her sharply. 


THE TALL STRANGER 


29 


‘T lived with Nebraska — ^for a while,” she said, matter-of- 
factly, giving him a calm stare. “Li’l Marie knows all they 
is to know about Nebraska Jones — ^and a little bit more. 
Which goes double for his gang.” 

“Shucks,” Racey grunted contemptuously. “Does he and 
his gang run Farewell I’d always thought Farewell was a 
man’s size town.” 

“They’re careful,” explained the girl. “They got sense 
enough not to run any blazers they can’t back to the limit. 
Yeah, they’re careful — ^now.” 

“Now, huh? Later, when they’ve filled their hands and 
there’s more of ’em playin’ they might not be so careful, huh, 
Marie?” 

“Unless yo’re a heap careful right now you won’t have a 
thing to do with ‘later,’ ” she parried. “You do like I say. 
Mister Man. I ain’t a bit anxious to see you wiped out.” 

“Wiping me out would shore cramp my style,” he ad- 
mitted. “I ” 

At this juncture hoofbeats sounded sharply on the trail 
behind them. Racey turned in a flesh, his right hand drop- 
ping. But it was only Lanpher and the stranger riding out of 
a belt of pines whose deep and lusty soughing had drowned 
the noise of their approach. 

Lanpher and his comrade rode by at a trot. The former 
mumbled a greeting to Racey but barely glanced at the girl. 
Women did riot interest Lanpher. He was too selfishly 
stingy. The stranger was more appreciative. He gave the 
girl a stare of frank admiration before he looked at Racey 
Dawson. The latter perceived that the stranger’s eyes were 
remarkably black and keen, perceived, too, that the man as he 
rode past and on half turned in the saddle for a second look at 
the girl. 

“Who’s yore friend?” asked Marie, an insolent lift to her 
upper lip and a slightly puzzled look in her brown eyes as her 
gaze followed the stranger and Lanpher. 


30 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Friend?” said Racey. “Speaking personal, now, I ain’t 
lost either of ’em.” 

“I know who Lanpher is,” she told him, impatiently. “I 
meant the other.” 

“I’ll never tell yuh. I dunno him.” 

“I think I’ve seen him somewhere — sometime. I can’t 
remember where or how — ^I see so many men. There! I 
almost had it. Gone again now. Don’t it make you sick 
when things get away from you like that? Makes you think 
yo’re a-losing yore mind almost.” 

“He looked at you almighty strong,” proffered Racey. 
“Maybe he'll remember. Why don’t you ask him?” 

“Maybe I will at that,” said she. 

“Didja know he was a friend of Nebraska’s?” he asked, 
watching her face keenly. 

She shook her head. “Nebraska knows a lot of folks,” she 
said, indifferently. 

“He knows Punch-the-breeze Thompson, too.” 

“Likely he would, knowing Nebraska. He belongs to 
Nebraska’s bunch.” 

“What does Nebraska do for a living?” 

“Everybody and anything. Mostly he deals a game in the 
Starlight.” 

“What does Peaches Austin work at?” he pursued, think- 
ing that it might be well to learn what he could of the enemy’s 
habits. 

“He deals another game in the Happy Heart.” 

“ ‘The hand is quicker than the eye, ’ ” he quoted, cynically, 
recalling what the stranger had said to Punch-the-breeze 
Thompson. 

“Oh, Peaches is slick enough,” said she, comprehending 
instantly. “But Nebraska is slicker. Don’t never sit into 
no game with Nebraska Jones. Lookit here,” she added, her 
expression turning suddenly anxious, “did I take my ride for 
nothing?” 


THE TALL STRANGER 


31 


“Huh? . . . Oh, that! Shore not. You bet I’m 
obliged to you, and I hope I can do as much for you some day. 
But I wasn’t figuring on staying here any length of time. 
Swing — ^he’s my friend — and I are going down to try Arizona 
a spell. We’ll be pulling out to-morrow, I expect.” 

“Then all you got to look out for is to-night. But I’m 
telling you you better drag it to-morrow shore.” 

Racey smiled slowly. “If it wasn’t I got business down 
south I’d admire to stay. I ain’t leaving a place just be- 
cause I ain’t popular, not nohow. I’m over twenty-one. I got 
my growth.” 

“It don’t matter why you go. Yo’re a-going. That’s 
enough. It’s a good thing for you you got business, and you 
can stick a pin in that.” 

“I’ll have to do something about them friends of his alia 
same, before I go,” Racey said, thoughtfully. 

“ Huh ? ” Perplexedly. 

“Yeah. If they’re a-honing to bushwhack me for what I 
did to Nebraska, it ain’t fair for me to go sifting off thisaway 
and not give ’em some kind of a run for their alley. Look at 
it close. You can see it ain’t.” 

“I don’t see nothing ” 

“ Shore you do. It would give ’em too much of a chance to 
talk. They might even get to saying they ran me out o’ 
town. And the more I think of it the more I’m shore they’ll 
be saying just that.” 

“But you said you was going away. You said you had 
business in Arizona.” 

“Shore I have, and shore I’m going. But first I gotta give 
Nebraska’s friends a chance to draw cards. A chance, y’ 
understand.” 

“You’ll be killed,” she told him, white-lipped. 

“Why, no,” said he. “Not never a-tall. Drawing cards 
is one thing and playing the hand out is a cat with another 
kind of tail. I got hopes they won’t get too rough with me.” 


32 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Well, of all the stubborn damn fools I ever saw ’* be- 

gan the girl, angrily. 

At which Racey Dawson laughed aloud. 

“That’s all right,” she snapped. “You can laugh. 
Might ’a’ knowed yoi; would. A man is such a plumb id jit. 
A feller does all she can to show him the right trail out, and 
does he take it? He does not. He laughs. That’s what he 
does. He laughs. He thinks it’s funny. You gimme a 
pain, you do!” 

On the instant she jerked her pony round, whirled her quirt 
cross-handed, and tore down the back-trail at full gallop. 

“Aw, hell,” said Racey, looking after the fleeing damsel 
regretfully. “I clean forgot to ask her about the rest of 
Nebraska’s friends.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE OLD LADY 

H ope Old Man Dale is home,” said Racey to himself 
when he saw ahead of him the grove of cottonwoods 
marking the location of Moccasin Spring. “But he 
won’t be,” he added, lugubriously. “I never did have any 
luck.” 

He passed the grove of trees and opened up the prospect of 
house and stable and corral with cottonwood and willow- 
bordered Soogan Creek in the background. 

“Changed some since I was here last,” he muttered in 
wonder. For nesters as a rule do not go in for flowers and 
shrubs. And here, besides a small truck garden, were both — 
Jill giving evidence of much care and attention. 

Racey dismounted at the corral and approached the 
kitchen door. A fresh young voice in the kitchen was singing 
a song to the brave accompaniment of a twanging banjo; 

*^When I was a-goirC down the road 
With a tired team an' a heavy load, 

I cracked my whip an* the leader sprung. 

An* he almost busted the wagon tongue, 

Turkey in the straw, ha I ha! ha! 

Turkey in ” 

The singing stopped in the middle of a line. The banjo 
went silent in the middle of a bar. Racey looked in at the 
kitchen door and saw, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, 
a very pretty girl. One knee was crossed over the other, in 

33 


S4 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

her lap was the mute banjo, and she was looking straight at 
him. 

Racey, heartily and internally cursing himself for having 
neglected to shave, pulled off his hat and achieved a head-hob. 

“Good morning,” said the pretty girl, putting up a slim 
tanned hand and tucking in behind a well-set ear a strayed 
lock of black hair. 

“Mornin’,” said Racey, and decided then and there that 
he had never before seen eyes of such a deep, dark blue, or a 
mouth so alluringly red. 

“What,” said the pretty girl, laying the banjo on the 
table and sliding down till her feet touched the floor, “what 
can I do for you.?” 

“Nun-nothin’,” stuttered the rattled Racey, clasping his 
hat to his bosom, so that he could button unseen the top 
button of his shirt, “except cuc-can you And Miss Dale for 
me. Is she home?” 

“Mother’s out. So’s Father. I’m the only one home.” 

“It’s yore sister I want. Miss Dale — ^yore oldest sister.” 

“You must mean Mrs. Morgan. She lives ” 

“No, I don’t mean her. Yore oldest sister. Miss. Her 
whose hoss was taken by mistake in Farewell yesterday.” 

“That was my horse.” 

“ Yores ! But they said it was an old lady’s hoss ! Are you 
shore it ” 

“Of course I’m sure. Did you bring him back? . . . 

Wliere? . . . The corral?” 

The girl walked swiftly to the window, took one glance at 
the bay horse tied to the corral gate, and returned to the 
table. 

“Certainly that’s my horse,” she reiterated with the slight- 
est of smiles. 

Racey Dawson stared at her in horror. Her horse! He 
had actually run off with the horse of this beautiful being. 
He had thereby caused inconvenience to this angel. If he 


THE OLD LADY 


35 


could only crawl off somewhere and pass away quietly. At 
the moment, by his own valuation, any one buying him for a 
nickel would have been liberally overcharged. Her horse! 
‘T — I took yore hoss,” he spoke up, desperately. “I’m 
Racey Dawson.” 

“So you’re the man ” she began, and stopped. 

He nodded miserably, his contrite eyes on the toes of 
her shoes. Small shoes they were. Cheerfully would he 
have lain down right there on the floor and let her 
wipe those selfsame shoes upon him. It would have been 
a positive pleasure. He felt so worm-like he almost 
wriggled. Slowly, oh, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to 
her face. 

“I — I was drunk,” he confessed, hoping that an honest 
confession would restrain her from casting him into outer 
darkness. 

“I heard you were,” she admitted. 

“I thought it was yore oldest sister’s pony,” he bumbled 
on, feeling it incumbent upon him to say something. “They 
told me something about an old lady.” 

“Jane Morgan’s the only other sister I have. Who told 
you this wild tale?” 

-.“Them,” was his vague reply. He was not the man to 
give away the jokers of Farewell. Old lady, indeed! Miss 
Blythe to the contrary notwithstanding this girl was not 
within sight of middle-age. “Yeah,” he went on, “they 
shore fooled me. Told me I’d taken an old maid’s hoss, 
and ” 

“Oh, as far as that goes,” said the girl, her long eyelashes 
demurely drooping, “they told you the truth. I’m an old 
maid.” 

“You? Shucks!” Hugely contemptuous. 

“Oh, but I am,” she insisted, raising her eyes and tilting 
sidewise her charming head. “I’m not married.” 

“Thank ” he began, impulsively, but choked on the 


36 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


second word and gulped hard. “I mean,” he resumed, 
hastily, “I don’t understand why I never saw you before. I 
was here once, but you weren’t around.” 

“When were you here? . . . Why, that was two 

years ago. I was only a kid then — all legs like a calf. No 
wonder you didn’t notice me.” 

She laughed at him frankly, with a bewildering flash of 
white teeth. 

“I shore must ’a’ been blind,” he said, truthfully. “They 
ain’t any two ways, about thaV* 

Under his admiring gaze a slow blush overspread her 
smooth cheeks. She laughed again — uncertainly, and burst 
into swift speech. “My manners! WTiat have I been 
thinking of? Mr. Dawson, please sit down, do. I know you 
must be tired after your long ride. Take that chair under 
the mirror. It’s the strongest. You can tip it back against 
the wall if you like. I’ll get you a cup of coffee. I know 
you’re thirsty. I’m sorry Mother and Father aren’t home, 
but Mother drove over to the Bar S on business and I don’t 
know where Father went!” 

“I ain’t fit to stay,” hesitated Racey, rasping the back of 
his hand across his stubbly chin. 

“Nonsense. You sit right down while I grind the coffee. 
I’ll have you a potful in no time. I make pretty good coffee 
if I do say it myself.” 

“I’ll bet you do.” 

“But my sister Jane makes better. You’ll get some of 
hers at dinner.” 

“Dinner?” He stared blankly. 

“Of course, dinner. When Mother and Father are away 
I always go down there for my meals. It’s only a quarter- 
mile down stream. Shorter if you climb that ridge. But it’s 
so stony I generally go along the creek bank where I can 
gallop. . . . What? Why, of course you’re going with 

me. Jane would never forgive me if I didn’t bring you. 


THE OLD LADY 


37 


And what would Chuck say if you came this far and then 
didn’t go on down to his house? Don’t you suppose he en- 
joys seeing his old friends? It was only last week I heard 
him wonder to Father if you were ever coming back to this 
country. How did you like it up at the Bend?” 

“Right fine,” he told her, settling himself comfortably in 
the chair she had indicated. “But a feller gets tired of one 
place after a while. I thought maybe I’d come back to the 
Lazy River and get a job ridin’ the range again.” 

“Aren’t there any ranches round the Bend?” she asked, 
poking up the fire and setting on the coffee-pot. 

“Plenty, but I — I like the Lazy River country,” he told 
her. “Fort Creek country for yores truly, now and here- 
after.” 

In this fashion did the proposed journey to Arizona go 
glimmering. His eye lingered on the banjo where it lay on 
the table. 

“Can you play it?” she asked, her eye following his. 

“Some,” said he. “Want to hear a camp-meeting song?” 

She nodded. He rose and picked up the banjo. He placed 
a foot on the chair seat, slid the banjo to rest on his thigh, 
swept the strings, and broke into ‘ Tnchin’ Along’ ’ . Which ditty 
made her laugh. For it is a funny song, and he sang it well. 

“That was fine,” she told him when he had sung it through. 
“Your voice sounds a lot like that of a man I heard singing 
in Farewell yesterday. He was in the Happy Heart when I 
was going by, and he sang Jog on, jog on the footpath way. If 
it hadn’t been a saloon I’d have gone in. I just love the old 
songs.” 

“ You do? ” said he, delightedly, with shining eyes. “ Well, 
Miss Dale, that feller in the saloon was me, and old songs is 
where I live. I cut my teeth on ‘The Barley Mow’ and grew 
up with ‘Barbara Allen’. My mother she used to sing ’em all. 
She was a great hand to sing and she taught me. Know 
‘The Keel Row.?^”’ 


38 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


She didn’t, so he sang it for her. And others he sang, too — 
“TheMerry Cuckoo” and “The Bailiff’s Daughter”. The last 
she liked so well that he sang it three times over, and they 
quite forgot the coffee. 

Racey Dawson was starting the second verse of “Sourwood 
Mountain” when someone without coughed apologetically. 
Racey stopped singing and looked toward the doorway. 
Standing in the sunken half-round log that served as a door- 
step was the stranger he had seen with Lanpher. 

There was more than a hint of amusement in the black 
eyes with which the stranger was regarding Racey. The 
latter felt that the stranger was enjoying a hearty internal 
laugh at his expense. As probably he was. Racey looked at 
him from beneath level brows. The lid of the stranger’s 
right eye dropped ever so little. It was the merest of winks. 
Yet it was unmistakable. It recalled their morning’s meet- 
ing. More, it was the tolerant wink of a superior to an 
inferior. A wink that merited a kick.^^ Quite so. 

The keen black eyes veered from Racey to the girl. The 
man removed his hat and bowed with, it must be said, not a 
little grace. Miss Dale nodded coldly. The stranger smiled. 
It was marvellous how the magic of that smile augmented 
the attractive good looks of the stranger’s full face. It was 
equally singular how that self-same smile rendered more 
hawk-like than ever the hard and Roman profile of the 
fellow. It was precisely as though he were two different 
men at one and the same time. 

“Does Mr. Dale live here.^” inquired the stranger. 

“He does.” A breath from the Boreal Pole was in the 
two words uttered by Miss Dale. 

The stranger’s smile widened. The keen black eyes began 
to twinkle. He made as if to enter, but went no farther than 
the placing of one foot on the doorsill. 

“Is he home?” 

“He isn’t.” Clear and colder. 


THE OLD LADY 


39 


‘T’m shore sorry,” grieved the stranger, the smile waning 
a trifle. “I wanted to see him,” 

“ I supposed as much,” sniffed Miss Dale, uncordially. 

“Yes, Miss,” said the stranger, undisturbed. “When will 
he be back, if I might ask.^^” 

“To-night — to-morrow. I’m not sure.” 

“So I see,” nodded the stranger. “Would it be worth 
while my waitin’.?” 

“That depends on what you call worth while.” 

“You’re right. It does. Standards ain’t always alike, 
are they.” He laughed silently, and pulled on his hat. 
“And it’s a good thing standards ain’t all alike,” he resumed, 
chattily. “Wouldn’t it be a funny old world if they were?” 

The smile of him recognized Racey briefly, but i|: rested 
upon and caressed the girl. She shook her shoulders as if 
she were ridding herself of the touch of hands. 

The stranger continued to smile — and to look as if he ex- 
pected a reply. But he did not get it. Miss Dale stared 
calmly at him, through him. 

Slowly the stranger slid his foot from the doorsill to the 
doorstep; slowly, very slowly, his keenly twinkling black 
gaze travelled over the girl from her face to her feet and up 
again to finally fasten upon and hold as with a tangible grip 
her angry blue eyes. 

“ I’m sorry yore pa ain’t here,” he resumed in a drawl. “ I 
had some business. It can wait. I’ll be back. So long.” 

The stranger turned and left them. 

From the kitchen window they watched him mount his 
horse and ford the creek and ride away westward. 

“I don’t like that man,” declared Miss Dale, and caught 
her lower lip between her white teeth. “I wonder what he 
wanted?” 

“You’ll find out when he comes back.” Dryly. 

“I hope he never comes back. I never want to see him 
again. Do you know him?” 


40 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Not me. First time I ever saw him was this morning 
in Farewell. He was with Lanpher. When I was coming 
out here he and Lanpher caught up with me and passed 
me.” 

“He didn’t bring Lanpher here with him anyhow.” 

“He didn’t for a fact,” assented Racey Dawson, his eyes 
following the dwindling figures of the rider and his horse. 
“I wonder why.?^” 

“I wonder, too.” Thus Miss Dale with a gurgling chuckle. 

Both laughed. For Racey ’s sole visit to the Dale place had 
been made in company with Lanpher. The cause of said 
visit had been the rustling and butchering of an 88 cow, which 
Lanpher had ill-advisedly essayed to fasten upon Mr. Dale. 
But,'*due to the interference of Chuck Morgan, a Bar S rider, 
who later married Jane Dale, Lanpher ’s attempt had been 
unavailing. It may be said in passing that Lanpher had 
suffered both physically and mentally because of that visit. 
Of course he had neither forgiven Chuck Morgan nor the 
Bar S for backing up its puncher, which it had done to the 
limit. 

“ I quit the 88 that day,” Racey Dawson told the girl. 

“I know you did. Chuck told me. Look at the time, 
will you? Get your hat. We mustn’t keep Jane waiting.” 

“No,” he said, thoughtfully, his brows puckered, “we 
mustn’t keep Jane waitin’. Lookit, Miss Dale, as I re- 
member yore pa he had a moustache. Has he still got it?” 

Miss Dale puzzled, paused in the doorway. “Wdiy, no,” 
she told him. “He wears a horrid chin whisker now.” 

“He does, huh? A chin whisker. Let’s be movin’ right 
along. I think I’ve got something interesting to tell you and 
yore sister and Chuck.” 

But they did not move along. They halted in the door- 
way. Or, rather, the girl halted in the doorway, and Racey 
looked over her shoulder. What stopped them short in 
their tracks was a spectacle — the spectacle of an elderly chin- 


THE OLD LADY 


41 


whiskered man, very drunk and disorderly, riding in on a 
paint pony. 

Father!” breathed Miss Dale in a horror-stricken whis- 
per. 

And as she spoke Father uttered a string of cheerful whoops 
and topped off with a long pull at a bottle he had been brand- 
ishing in his right hand. 

“Please go,” said Miss Dale to Racey Dawson. 

He hesitated. He was in a quandary. He did not relish 

leaving her with At that instant Mr. Dale decided 

Racey ’s course for him. Mr. Dale pulled a gun and, still 
whooping cheerily, shook five shots into the atmosphere. 
Then Mr. Dale fumblingly threw out his cylinder and 
began to reload. 

“I’d better get his gun away from him,” Racey said, 
apologetically, over his shoulder, as he ran forward. 

But the old man would have none of him. He cunningly 
discerned an enemy in Racey and tried to shoot him. It 
was lucky for Racey that the old fellow was as drunk as a 
fiddler, or certainly Racey would have been buried the next 
day. As it was, the first bullet went wide by a yard. The 
second went straight up into the blue, for by then Racey had 
the old man’s wrist. 

“There, there,” soothed Racey, “you don’t want that gun, 
Nawsir. Not you. Le’s have it, that’s a good feller now.” 

So speaking he twisted the sixshooter from the old man’s 
grasp and jammed it into the waistband of his own trousers. 
The old man burst into frank tears. Incontinently he slid 
sidewise from the saddle and clasped Racey round the neck. 

“I’m wild an* woolly an* full o* fleas 
Fm hard to curry below the knees ” 

Thus he carolled loudly two lines of the justly popular 
song. 


42 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Luke,” he bawled, switching from verse to prose, “why 
didja leave me, Luke?” 

Strangely enough, he did not stutter. Without the slightest 
difficulty he leaped that pitfall of the drunken, the letter L. 

“Luke,” repeated Racey Dawson, struck by a sudden 
thought. “What’s this about Luke? You mean Luke 
Tweezy?” 

The old man rubbed his shaving-brush adown Racey’s 
neck-muscles. “I mean Luke Tweezy,” he said. “Lots o’ 
folks don’t like Luke. They say he’s mean. But they ain’t 
nothin’ mean about Luke. He’s frien’ o’ mine, Luke is.” 

“Mr. Dawson,” said Molly Dale at Racey’s elbow, “please 
go, I can get him into the house. You can do no good here.” 

“I can do lots o’ good here,” declared Racey, who felt sure 
that he was on the verge of a discovery. “Somebody is a- 
trying to jump yore ranch, and if you’ll lemme talk to him 
I can find out who it is.” 

“Who — ^how?” said Miss Dale, stupidly , for, what with the 
fright and embarrassment engendered by her father’s condi- 
tion the true significance of Racey’s remark was not im- 
mediately apparent. 

“Yore ranch,” repeated Racey, sharply. “They’re a- 
tryin’ to steal it from you. You lemme talk to him, ma’am. 
Look out! Grab his bridle!” 

Miss Dale seized the bridle of her father’s horse in time 
to prevent a runaway. She was not aware that the horse’s 
attempt to run away had been inspired by Racey surrep- 
titiously and severely kicking it on the fetlock. This he had 
done that Miss Dale’s thoughts might be temporarily diverted 
from her father. Anything to keep her from shooing him 
away as she so plainly wished to do. 

Racey began to assist the now-crumpling Mr. Dale toward 
the house. “What’s this about Luke Tweezy?” prodded 
Racey. “Did you see him to-day?” 

“Shore I seen him to-day,” burbled the drunken one. 


THE OLD LADY 


4S 


“He left me at McFluke’s after buyin’ me the bottle and 
asked me to stay there till he got back. But I got tired 
waitin’. So I come along. I — ^hic — come- along.” 

Limply the man’s whole weight sagged down against 
Racey’s supporting arm, and he began to snore. 

“Shucks,” muttered Racey, then stooping he picked up 
the limp body in his arms and carried it to the house. 

“He’s asleep,” he called to Miss Dale. “Where’ll I put 
him?” 

“I’ll show you,” she said, with a break in her voice. 

She hastily tied the now-quiet pony to a young cottonwood 
growing at the corner of the house and preceded Racey into 
the kitchen. 

“Here,” she said, her eyes meeting his a fleeting ini^tant as 
she threw open a door giving into an inner room. “On the 
bed.” 

She turned back the counterpane and Racey laid her snor- 
ing parent on the blanket. Expertly he pulled off the man’s 
boots and stood them side by side against the wall. 

“Had to take ’em off now, or his feet would swell so after 
you’d never get ’em off,” he said in justification of his con- 
duct. 

She held the door open for him to leave the room. She did 
not look at him. Nor did she speak. 

“I’m going now,” he said, standing in the middle of the 
kitchen. “But I wish you wouldn’t shut that door just yet.” 

“I Oh, can’t you see you’re not wanted here?” Her 

voice was shaking. The door was open but a crack. He 
could not see her. 

“I know,” he said, gently. “But you don’t understand 
how serious this business is. I had good reason for believing 
that somebody is trying to steal yore ranch. From several 
things yore dad said I’m shorer than ever. If I could only 
talk to you a li’l while.” 

At this she came forth. Her eyes were downcast. Her 


44 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


cheeks were red with shamed blood. She leaned against the 
table. One closed fist rested on the top of the table. The 
knuckles showed white. She was trembling a little. 

“Where and what is McFluke’s?” he asked. 

“Oh, that’s where he got it!” she exclaimed, bitterly. 

“I guess. If you wouldn’t mind telling me where Mc- 
Fluke’s is, ma’am ” 

“It’s a little saloon and store on the Marysville road at 
the Lazy River ford.” 

“It’s new since my time then.” 

“It’s been in operation maybe a year and a half. What 
makes you think someone is trying to steal our ranch.?” 

“Lots o’ things,” he told her, briskly. “But they ain’t 
gonna do it if I can help it. Don’t you fret. It will all come 
out right. Shore it will. Can’t help it.” 

“But tell me how — ^what you know,” she demanded. 

“I haven’t time now, unless you’re coming with me to see 
Chuck.” 

“I can’t — ^now.” 

“Then you ask Chuck later. I’ll tell him all about it. 
You ask him. So long.” 

Racey hurried out and caught up his own horse. He swung 
into the saddle and spurred away down stream. 


CHAPTER V 


MC fluke’s 

T hey been after him to sell a long time,” said Chuck 
Morgan, rolling a cigarette as he and Racey Dawson 
jogged along toward McFluke’s at the ford of the 

Lazy. 

“Who.^” asked Racey. 

“I dunno. Can’t find out. Luke Tweezy is th^ agent 
and he won’t give the party’s name.” 

“Has Old Salt tried to buy him out.^” 

“Not as I know of. Why should he.^ He knows he won’t 
sell to anybody.” 

“Have they been after you, too.f^” 

“Not yet. Dad Dale’s the lad they want special. My 
ranch would be a good thing, but it ain’t noways necessary 
like Dale’s is to anybody startin’ a big brand. Lookit the 
way Dale’s lays right across the valley between them two 
ridges like a cork in a bottle. A mile wide here, twenty 
mile away between Funeral Slue and Cabin Hill she’s a good 
thirty mile wide — one cracking big triangle of the best grass 
in the territory. All free range, but without Dale’s section 
and his water rights to begin with what good is it.^” 

“Not much,” 'bonceded Racey. 

“And nobody would dast to start a brand between Funeral 
Slue and Cabin Hill,” pursued Chuck. “Free range or not, 
it as good as belongs to the Bar S.” 

“Old Salt used to run quite a bunch round Cabin Hill and 
another north near the Slue.” 

“He does yet — one or two thousand head in all, maybe. 
45 


46 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

Oh, these fellers ain’t foolish enough to crowd Old Salt that i 
close. They know Dale’s is their best chance.” i 

Racey’s eyes travelled, from one ridge to the other. “How 
come they allowed Dale to take up a six-fortj^.^^ ” he inquired. 

“They didn’t,” was the answer. “The section is made up 
of four claims, his’n, Jane’s, Molly’s, an’ Mis’ Dale’s. But 
they’re proved up now, and made over to him all regular. 
That’s how come.” 

“Haven’t Silvertip Ransom and Long Oscar got a claim 
some’ers over yonder on Dale’s land?” inquired Racey, , 
looking toward the northerly ridge. 

“They had, but they got discouraged and sold out to Dale I 
the same time Slippery Wilson and his wife traded in their | 
claims on the other side of the ridge to Old Salt and Tom 
Loudon. None of ’em’s worth anything, though.” 

Racey nodded. “Dale ever drink much?” was his next : 
question. s 

“He used to before he come here. But he took the cure 
and quit. To-day’s the first bust-up he’s had since he hit 
this country.” | 

“That’s it, then. Luke gave him the redeye so’s he’d be ' 
easy meat for the butcher. Does he ever gamble any?” 

“Shore — before he came West. Jane done told me how i 
back East in McPherson, Kansas, he used to go the hmit I 
forty ways — liquor, cards, the whole layout o’ hellraising. 
But his habits rode him to a frazzle final and he knuckled t 
under to tooberclosis, and they only saved his life by fetchin’ j 
him West. All of us thought he was cured for good.” i 

“Now Luke Tweezy has started him off so’s Nebraska — 
Peaches Austin, I mean, can get in his fine work. It’s plain | 
enough.” 

“Shore,” assented Chuck Morgan. “Yonder’s Mc- 
Fluke’s,” he added, nodding toward two gray-brown log and j 
shake shacks and a stockaded corral roosting on the high I 
ground beyond the belt of cottonwoods and willows marking 


MCFLUKE’S 


47 


the course of the Lazy. “Them’s his stables and corral,” 
went on Chuck. “The house she’s down near the river. 
Can’t see her on account of the cottonwoods.” 

“And they can’t see us count of the cottonwoods. So ” 

“Unless he’s at the corral.” 

“ I’ll take the chance. Chuck. You stay here — down that 
draw is a good place. I’ll go on alone. McFluke don’t 
kiiow me. Maybe I can find out something, see. Bimeby 
you come along — ^half-hour, maybe. You don’t know me, 
either. I’ll get into conversation with you. You follow 
my lead. We’ll pull McFluke in if we can. Between the 
two of us Well, anyhow, we’ll see what he says.” 

Chuck Morgan nodded, and turned his horse aside toward 
the draw. ^ 

Ten minutes later the water of the Lazy River was sluicing 
the dust from the legs and belly of Racey Dawson’s horse. 
Racey spurred up the bank and rode toward the long, low 
building that was McFluke’s store and saloon. 

There were no ponies standing at the hitching-rail in 
front of the place. For this Racey was devoutly thankful. 
If he could only catch McFluke by himself. 

As Racey dismounted at the rail a man came to the open 
doorway of the house and looked at him. He was a heavy-set 
man, dewlapped like a bloodhound, and his hard blue eyes 
were close-coupled. The reptilian forehead did not signify 
a superior mentality, even as the slack, retreating chin de- 
noted a minimum of courage. It was a most contradic- 
tory face. The features did not balance. Racey Dawson 
was not a student of physiognomy, but he recognized a weak 
chin when he saw it. If this man were indeed McFluke, 
then he, Racey Dawson, was in luck. 

Without a word the man turned from the doorway. Racey 
heard him walking across the floor. And for so heavy a man 
his step was amazingly light. Racey went into the house. 
The room he entered was a large one. In front of a side wall 


48 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


tiered to the low ceiling with shelves bearing a sorry assort- 
ment of ranch supplies was the store counter. Across the j 
back of the room ran the long bar. Behind the bar, flanking ; 
the door giving into another room, were two shelves heavily | 
stocked with rows of bottles. 

The man that had come to the door was behind the bar. i 
His hands were resting on top of it, and he was staring fixedly 
and fishily at Racey Dawson. There was no welcome in his 
face. Nor was there any unfriendliness. It was simply ex- 
ceedingly expressionless. i 

Racey draped himself against the bar. “Liquor,” said he. i 
Having absorbed a short one, he poured himself a second. | 
“Have one with me,” he nodded to the man. | 

“All right.” The man’s tone was as expressionless as his I 
face. “Here’s hell.” He filled and drank. j 

Racey looked about the room. 

“Where’s Old Man Dale.^” he asked, casually. I 

“He got away on me,” replied the man. “He Say!” ' 

— ^with sudden suspicion — “who are you? ” j 

“Are you McFluke?” shot back Racey. j 

• The man nodded slowly, suspicion continuing to brighten I 
his hard blue eyes. 

“Then what didja let him get away for?” persisted Racey. | 
“Luke Tweezy said he left him here, and he said he’d stay 
here. That was yore job — to see he stayed here.” 

“Who are ” began the suspicious McFluke. 

“Nemmine who I am,” rapped out Racey, who believed he 
had formed a correct estimate of McFluke. “ I’m somebody 
who knows more about this deal than you do, and that’s 
enough for you to know. Why didn’t you hold Old Man 
Dale?” 

“ I ^He got away on me,” knuckled down McFluke. “I 

was in the kitchen gettin’ me some coffee, and when I come 
back he had dragged it.” 

“Luke Tweezy will be tickled to death with you,” said 


MCFLUKE’S 49 

Racey Dawson. “What do you s’pose he went to all that 
trouble for? ” 

“ I couldn’t help it, could I? I ain’t got eyes in the back 
of my head so’s I can see round corners an’ through doors. 
How’d I know Old Man Dale was gonna slide off? When I 
left him he was all so happy with his bottle you’d ’a’ thought 
he’d took root for life. Anyway, Peaches Austin oughta come 
before the old man left. He was supposed to come, and he 
didn’t. K anything slips up account o’ this it’s gotta be 
blamed on Peaches.” 

“Yeah, I guess so. And Peaches ain’t been here yet? ” 

“Not yet, and I wish to Gawd he was never cornin’.” 

The man’s tone was so earnest that Racey looked at him, 
startled \ 

“WTiy not?” he asked, coldly. 

“Because I don’t wanna get my head blowed off, that’s 
why.” 

“Aw, maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe Luke will win 
out.” 

“It ain’t only Luke Tweezy who’s gotta win out, and ypu 
know it. And they’s an ‘if’ the size of Pike’s Peak between 
us and winning out. I tell you, I don’t like it. It’s too damn 
dangerous.” 

“Shore, it’s dangerous,” assented Racey, slowly revolving 
his glass between his thumb and fingers, and wondering how 
far he dared go with this McFluke person. “But a gent has 
to live.” 

“He don’t have to get himself killed doin’ it,” snarled 
McFluke, swabbing down the bar. “ Who’s that a-comin’? ” 

He went to the doorway to see for himself who it was that 
rode so briskly on the Marysville trail. “Peaches Austin!” 
he sneered. “He’s only about three hours late.” 

It was now or never. Racey risked all on a single cast. 

“What did the boss say when him and Lanpher got here 
and found old Dale gone?” he asked, carelessly. 


50 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“He raised hell,” replied McFluke. “But Lanpher 
wasn’t with him. Yuh know old Dale hates Lanpher 
like poison. Well, I told Jack, like I tell you, that if 
anything slips up account o’ this. Peaches Austin can take 
the blame.” 

Racey nodded indifferently and slouched sidewise so that 
he could watch the doorway without dislocating his neck. 
McFluke, his back turned, still stood in the doorway. Racey 
lowered a cautious hand and loosened his sixshooter in its 
holster. He wished that he had taken the precaution to tie 
it down. It was impossible to foresee what the next few 
minutes might bring forth. Certainly the coming of Peaches 
Austin was most inopportune. 

Peaches Austin galloped up. He dismounted. He tied 
his horse. He greeted cheerily the glowering McFluke. The 
latter did not reply in kind. 

“This is a fine time for you to get here,” he growled. “A 
fi-ine time.” 

“Shut up, you fool!” cautioned Peaches in a low voice. 
“Ain’t you got no better sense, with the old man ” 

“Don’t let the old man worry you,” yapped McFluke. 
^‘The old man has done flitted. And Jack’s been here and 
he's done flitted.” 

“Whose hoss is that?” demanded Peaches, evidently re- 
ferring to Racey’s mount 

“One of the boys,” replied McFluke. “One o’ Jack’s 
friends. C’mon in.” 

Entered then Peaches Austin, a lithe, muscular person with 
pale eyes and a face the colour of a dead fish’s belly. He 
stared non-committally at Racey Dawson. It was evident 
that Peaches Austin was taking no one on trust. He nodded 
briefly to Racey, and strode to the bar. McFluke went be- 
hind the bar. 

“Ain’t I seen you in Farewell, stranger?” Peaches 
Austin asked, shortly. 


MCFLUKE’S 51 

“You might have,” returned Racey. “I’m mighty care- 
less where I travel.” 

“Known Jack long.?” Peaches was becoming nothing if 
not personal. 

“Long enough,” smiled Racey. 

“Lookit here, who are you?” 

“That’s what’s worryin’ McFluke,” dodged Racey, wish- 
ing that he could see just what it was McFluke was doing with 
his hands. 

But McFluke was employing his hands in nothing more 
dangerous than the fetching of a bottle from some recess 
under and behind the bar. Now he laughed. 

“He ain’t tellin’ all he knows,” he said to Peaches Austin. 
“Don’t be so damn suspiciony. Peaches. He’s a frjend of 
Jack’s, I tell you. He knows all about the deal.” 

“That don’t make him no friend of Jack’s,” declared 
Peaches, stubbornly. “I ” 

At which juncture Peaches’ flow of language was inter- 
rupted by the sudden entrance of Chuck Morgan. Chuck, 
after a sweeping glance round the room, headed straight for 
the bar. 

“McFluke,” said Chuck, halting a yard from the bar, 
“did you sell any redeye to Old Man Dale to-day?” 

“What’s that to you?” demanded McFluke, truculently. 

“Why, this,” replied Chuck, producing a sixshooter so 
swiftly that McFluke blinked. “You listen to me,” he re- 
sumed, harshly. “ It don’t matter whether you sold it to him 
or not. He got it here, and that’s the main thing. I’m tell- 
ing you if he gets any more I’m gonna make you hard to 
find.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” inquired McFluke. 

“Don’t do that,” Racey said, suddenly, as his hand shot 
out and pinned fast the right wrist of Peaches Austin. 
“C’mon outside now, where we can talk. Right through the 
door. To yore left. Aw right, now they can’t hear us. 


52 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Lookit, they ain’t any call for a gunplay, none whatever. 
This gent is only laying down the law to Mac. And here 
you have to get serious right away. See how easy Mac takes 
it. He ain’t doing a thing, not a thing. Good as gold, Mac 
is. Can’t you see how a killing thisaway, and a fellah like 
Morgan, too, would maybe put a crimp in this place for good.^ 
Have some sense, man. We need McFluke’s.” 

“He hadn’t oughta drawed on Mac,” said Peaches, his pale 
eyes, shifty as a cat’s, darting incessantly between Racey and 
the doorway. 

“He didn’t shoot him. And he ain’t. You lemme attend 
to this, will you? I’ll get him away quiet and peaceable — if 
I can. But you keep out of it. Y’understand?” 

Peaches Austin gnawed his lower lip. “I never did like 
Chuck Morgan,” he grumbled. “It was a good chance.” 

“A good chance to get yoreself lynched. Shore. It was 
all that.” 

“Say, I’d like to know where you come in, stranger. 
Jack never said anything to me about any feller yore size.” 

“Jack is like me. He ain’t tellin’ all he knows. And while 
we’re talking about Jack, I’ll tell you something. And. that’s 
to keep away from Farewell for three-four days.” 

“Why for?” 

“So’s to give Jack a chance to cool off. He’s hotter than 
a wet wolf ’cause you didn’t turn up here on time.” 

“I ain’t afraid of Jack.” 

“ ’Course you ain’t. But you know how Jack is. Even if 
it don’t come to a showdown, there’ll be words passed. And 
I don’t wanna run any risk of you quitting the outfit. Every 
man is needed. You be sensible and stick here with McFluke 
three-four days like I say, and after that c’mon in to Fare- 
well. In the meantime. I’ll see Jack and tell him how it 
happened you didn’t get here on time. And how did it 
happen, anyway?” 

Peaches Austin looked this way and that before replying. 


MCFLUKE’S 


53 


“I shore don’t like to tell how it happened,” he said. “Sounds 
so babyish like. But my hat blowed off over this side of 
Injun Ridge a ways and when I leaned down to pick her up, 
my hoss started, my hand slipped, and I went off on my head 
kerblam. And do you know. I’ll bet I was three hours a- 
running from hell to breakfast before I caught that hoss where 
he was f cedin’ in a narrow draw. I’m all tired out yet. 
They ain’t no strength in my legs.” 

“I’ll fix it up with Jack,” Racey lied with a wonderfully 
straight face. “Don’t you worry.” 

“I ain’t worryin’,” Peaches denied, irritably. “I ain’t 
afraid of Jack, I tell you.” 

“Shore,” soothed Racey, who, having formed an estirnate 
of Peaches, ranked him scarcely higher than McFlpke and 
treated him accordingly. “Shore, I know you ain’t. But 
alia same you need considerable of a coolin’ off yoreself. 
Just you stay out here now and watch me get Morgan 
away.” 

Racey nodded blithely to Peaches Austin, and turned to 
go into the house. He saw that Chuck Morgan had come 
outside, that he had brought McFluke with him, and was 
observing events with a cold and calculating eye. 

“I tell you I couldn’t help his getting the whiskey,” McFluke 
was whining. “It ain’t my fault if somebody gives it to 
him, is it.^” 

“Of course not,” chimed in Racey, briskly. “Mac means 
all right. He didn’t know there was any law against pro- 
viding old Dale with whiskey.” 

“They is a law,” insisted Chuck Morgan, belligerently, his 
gun trained unswervingly on McFluke’s broad stomach. 
“They is a law. I made it. And it goes. Peaches,” he 
added, raising his voice, “don’t you slide round the house 
now. If you move so much as a yard from where yo’re stand- 
ing I ventilate McFluke immediate.” 

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Racey, mildly. 


54 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

“ I got my eye on you, too,” declared Chuck. “ What I said 
to Peaches goes for you, and don’t you forget it.” 

“I ain’t likely to, not me. All I want you to do is go 
some’ers else peaceful. You ain’t figuring on living here, are 
you?” 

Chuck uttered a short, hard laugh. McFluke’s back was 
toward Racey. Peaches Austin was behind him, thirty feet 
away. Racey’s left eyelid drooped. His head moved al- 
most imperceptibly toward his horse. 

“I’m going now,” said Chuck. 

“I’ll go with you just to see you on yore way sort of,” 
said Racey. 

“You was going with me anyway sort of,” Chuck told him. 
“ Yo’re the only man round here so far’s I can see, and I ain’t 
taking any chances on you, not a chance. Yo’re going down 
the trail a spell with me. Later you can copie back. Keep 
yore hands where they are.” 

Quickly Chuck shoved McFluke to one side, rushed forward, 
and possessed himself of Racey’s gun. “Crawl yore boss,” 
he commanded. 

Racey obeyed without a word. Chuck climbed into his 
own saddle without losing the magic of the drop and without 
losing sight for an instant of McFluke and Peaches Austin. 

“Take the trail south,” said Chuck Morgan, and backed 
his horse in a wide half -circle. 

Racey did as he was ordered. Three minutes later he was 
joined by his friend. Until the trail took them down into a 
draw grown up in spruce Chuck’s gun remained very much in 
evidence. Any unbiased spectator without a knowledge of 
the facts would have said that he was keeping a close watch 
on Racey Dawson. 

Once out of sight of the house of McFluke, Chuck sheathed 
his sixshooter with a jerk and returned Racey’s gun. 

“You did fine at the last,” Racey said, admiringly, as he 
bolstered his weapon. “But what did you jump McFluke 


MCFLUKE’S 


55 


for thataway at first? That come almighty near kicking the 
kettle over, that play did.” 

“I know,” said Chuck, shamefacedly, ‘‘and when I rode up 
to the shack I hadn’t intended anything like that. But 
when I saw that slickery juniper McFluke standing there be- 
hind the bar so fat and sassy, it come over me all of a sudden 
what he’d done to the Dale family by letting old Dale have 
whiskey, that I couldn’t help myself. Gawd, I wanted to 
knock him down and tromp his face flat as a floor. It ain’t 
as if McFluke ain’t been told about old Dale’s failing. I 
warned him when he first came here last year not to let old 
Dale have redeye on any account.” 

“I know,” nodded Racey, soberly, “but you want to re- 
member his giving old Dale whiskey ain’t the particular cow 
we’re after. There’s more to it than that, a whole lot more. 
We’ve got to be a li’l careful. Chuck, and go a li’l slow. If 
we go having a fraycas now they’ll get suspicious and go 
fussbudgettin’ round like a hound-dog after quail.” 

“Just as if they won’t suspicion something’s up soon as 
Peaches Austin gets back to Farewell.” 

“Peaches Austin ain’t going back to Farewell right away. 
I’ve fixed Peaches for a few days. And a few days is all I 
need to find out what I want to. And even after Peaches 
does float in will he know me after I’ve changed my shirt, 
dirtied my hat, and got me a clean shave twice over? He ain’t 
got no idea what I look like under the whiskers. He wasn’t 
living in Farewell before I went north, so all he knows about 
me is my voice and my boss. It will shore be the worst kind 
of luck if I can’t keep Peaches from hearing the one and seeing 
the other until after I’m ready. You leave it to yore uncle. 
Chuck. He knows.” ^ 

“He’s a great man, my uncle,” assented Chuck, and struck 
a derisive tongue in his cheek. “What did you find out from 
McFluke — ^anything? ” 

“Anything? Gimme a match and I’ll tell you.” 


CHAPTER VI 


CHANGE OF PLAN 

I T’S a long way to Arizona,” offered Racey Dawson, 
casually — too casually. 

Swing Tunstall’s bristle-haired head jerked round. 
Swing bent two suspicious eyes upon his friend. “You just 
find it out?” he queried. 

“No, oh, no,” denied Racey. “I’ve been thinking about 
it some time.” 

“Thinking!” sneered Swing. “That’s a new one — ^for 
you.” 

“Nemmine,” countered Racey. “It ain’t catchin’ — to 
you’* 

*‘Is that so?” yammered Swing, now over his head as far 
as repartee was concerned. “Is that so? What you gassing 
about Arizona for thisaway ? You gonna renig on the trip? ” 
“I’ll bet there’s plenty of good jobs we can find right here 
in Farewell,” dodged Racey. **And vicinity,” he amended. 
“Yep, Swing, old-timer. I’ll bet the Bar S or the Cross-in-a- 
box would hire us just too quick. Shore they would. It 
ain’t every day they get a chance at a jo-darter of a buster 
like ” 

“Like the damndest liar in four states meaning you,” cut 
in Swing. 

“You’re right,” admitted Racey, promptly. “When I 
was speaking of a jo-darter I meant you, so I was a liar. I 
admit it. I might ’a’ known you wouldn’t appreciate my 
kind words. Besides being several other things, you’re 
an ungrateful cuss. Gimme the makin’s.” 

56 


CHANGE OF PLAN 57 

“Smoke yore own, you hunk of misery. You had four 
extra sacks in yore warbags this morning.” 

** Had ? So you been skirmishin’ round my warbags, have 
you? How many of those sacks did you rustle?” 

“I left two.” 

“Two! Two! Say, I bought that tobacco myself for my 
own personal use, and not for a lazy, loafing, cow-faced lump 
of slumgullion to glom and smoke. Why don’t you spend 
something besides the evening now and then? Gawda- 
mighty, you sit on yore coin closer than a hen with one egg! 
I’ll gamble that Robinson Crusoe spent more money in a 
week than you spend in four years. Two sacks of my smok- 
ing. You got a gall like a hoss. There was my extra under- 
shirt under those sacks. It’s a wonder you didn’t ^mouch 
that, too.” 

“It didn’t fit,” replied Swing Tunstall, placidly construct- 
ing a cigarette. “Too big. Besides, all the buttons was off, 
and if they’s anything I despise it’s a undershirt without any 
buttons. Sort of wandering off the main trail though, 
ain’t we, Racey? We was talking about Arizona, wasn’t 
we?” 

“We was not,” Racey contradicted, quickly. “We was 
talking about a job here in Fort Creek County. T’ell with 
Arizona.” 

“T’ell with Arizona, huh? You’re serious? You mean 
it?” 

“I’m serious as lead in yore inwards. ’Course I mean it. 
Ain’t I been saying so plain as can be the last half-hour?” 

“You’re saying so is plain enough. And so is the whyfor.” 

“The whyfor?” 

“Shore, the whyfor. Say, do you take me for a damfool? 
Here you use up the best part of two days on a trip I could 
make in ten hours going slow and eating regular. Who is 
she, cowboy, who is she?” 

“What you talking about?” 


58 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“What am I talking about, huh? I’d ask that, I would. 
Yeah, I would so. Is she pretty?” 

“Poor feller’s got a hangover,” Racey murmured in pity. 
“I kind o’ thought it must be something like that when he 
began to talk so funny. Now I’m shore of it. You tie a wet 
towel round yore head. Swing, and take a good pull of cold 
water. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“So’ll I feel better in the morning if you jiggers will close 
yore traps and lemme sleep,” growled a peevish voice in the 
next room — on the Main Street side. 

As I live,” said Racey in a tone of vast surprise, “there’s 
somebody in the next room.” i 

“Sounds like the owner of the Starlight,” hazarded Swing ! 
Tunstall. . 

“It is the owner of the Starlight,” corroborated the voice, | 
“and I wanna sleep, and I wanna sleep now.'* j 

“We ain’t got any objections,” Racey told him. “She’s ; 
a fine, free country. And every gent is entitled to life, i 
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, three things no home j 
should be without.” | 

“Shut up, will you?” squalled the goaded proprietor of the 
Starlight Saloon. “ If you wanna make a speech go out to j 
the corral and don’t bother regular folks.” i 

“Hear that. Swing?” grinned Racey, and twiddled hisi' 
bare toes delightedly. “Gentleman says you gotta shut up.; 
Says he’s regular folks, too. You be good boy now and go ! 
by-by.” 

Shut up!" ■ 

“Here, here. Swing!” cried Racey, struck by a brilliant i 
idea. “What you doing with that gun?” | 

“I ” began the bewildered Swing who had not even: 

thought of his gun but was peacefully sitting on his cot pull- 
ing off his boots. [ 

“Leave it alone!” Racey interrupted in a hearty bawl.! 
“Don’t you go holding it at the wall even in fun. It might 


CHANGE OF PLAN 


59 


go off. You can’t tell. You’re so all-fired careless with a six- 
shooter, Swing. Like enough you’re aiming right where the 
feller’s bed is, too,” he added, craftily. 

Ensued then sounds of rapid departure from the bed next 
door. A door fiew open and slammed. The parting guest 
padded down the stairs in his socks, invoking his Maker as he 
went. 

“And that’s the last of him,” chuckled Racey. 

“Oh, you needn’t think I’m forgetting,” grumbled Swing 
Tunstall, sliding out of his trousers and folding them tidily 
beside his boots. “You soft-headed yap, have you gotta let 
a woman spoil everything?” 

“Spoil everything?” 

“You don’t think I’m going alia way to Arizona by my- 
self, nobody to talk to nor nothing, do you? Well, I ain’t. 
You can stick a pin in that.” 

Racey immediately sprang up, seized his friend’s limp hand, 
and pumped it vigorously. “ Bless you for them kind words,” 
he said. “I knew you’d stick by me. I knew I could de- 
pend on old Swing to do the right thing. To-morrow you and 
I will traipse out and locate us a couple of jobs.” 

Swing doubled a leg, fiattened one bare foot against Racey ’s 
chest, straightened the leg, and deposited Racey upon his own 
proper cot with force and precision. 

“Don’t you come honey-fuglin’ round me,” warned Swing. 
“And I didn’t say anything about sticking by you, neither. 
And when it comes to the right thing you and me don’t think 
alike a-tall. I ” 

I “I wish you’d pull yore kicks a few,” interrupted Racey, 

I rubbing his chest. “You like to busted a rib.” 

! “Not the way you landed,” countered the unfeeling Swing. 

I “You’re tryin’ to get off the trail again. Here you and me 
I plan her all out to go to ” 

I “ You bet,” burst in Racey, enthusiastically. “ We planned 
I to go to either the Bar S or the Cross-in-a-box and get that 


60 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


job. Shore we did. You got a memory like all outdoors, 
Swing. It plumb amazes me how clear and straight you keep 
everything in that head of yores. Yep, it shore does.’* 

Hereupon, in the most unconcerned manner, Racey Daw- 
son began to blow smoke rings toward the ceiling. 

Swing Tunstall sank sulkily down upon an elbow. 
“Whatsa use?” said Swing Tunstall. “Whatsa use?” 

It was then that someone knocked upon their chamber 
door. 

“Come in,’* said Racey Dawson. 

The door opened and Lanpher’s comrade of the attractive j 
smile and the ruthless profile walked into the room. He | 
closed the door without noise, spread his legs, and looked upon ! 
the two friends silently. 

“I heard you talking through the wall,” he said in a I 
studiedly low tone, a tone that, heard through a partition, ! 
would have been but an indistinguishable murmur. ! 

“Hearing us talk through walls seems to be a habit in this t 
hotel,’* commented Racey, tactfully following the other’s 
lead in lowness of tone. 

“I couldn’t help hearing,” apologized the stranger — ^he was 
vestless and bootless. Evidently he had been on the point of i 
retiring when the spirit moved him to visit his fellow-guests, i 
“I’d like to talk to you.” 

“You’re welcome,” said Racey, hospitably yanking his, 
trousers from the only chair the room possessed. “Sit‘ 
down.” j 

The stranger sat. Racey Dawson, sitting on the bed, his 
knees on a level with his chin, clasped his hands round his; 
bare ankles and accorded the stranger his closest attention.! 
To the casual observer, however, Racey looked uncommonly 
dull and sleepy, even stupid. But not too stupid. Racey; 
possessed too much native finesse to overdo it. 

It was apparent that the stranger did not recognize him. 
Which was not surprising. For, at the Dale ranch, Racey; 


CHANGE OF PLAN 


61 


had been wearing all his clothes and a beard of weeks. Now 
he was clean-shaven and attired in nothing but a flannel shirt. 
True, the stranger must have heard him singing to Miss Dale. 
But a singing voice is .far different from a speaking voice, and 
Bacey had not uttered a single conversational word in the 
stranger’s presence. Now he had occasion to bless this 
happy chance. 

Swing Tunstall, slow to take a cue, and still suffering with 
the sulks, continued to lie quietly, his head supported on a 
bent arm, and smoke. But he watched the stranger nar- 
rowly. 

The stranger tilted back his chair, and levering with his 
toes, teetered to and fro in silence. 

“I heard you say you were looking for a job in the morn- 
ing,” the stranger said suddenly to Bacey. 

“You heard right,” nodded Bacey. 

“Are you dead set on working for the Bar S or the Cross- 
in-a-box?” 

“I ain’t dead set on working for anybody. Work ain’t a 
habit with either of us, but so long as we got to work the 
ranches with good cooks have the call, and the Bar S and 
Bichie’s outfit have special good cooks.” 

The stranger nodded and began to smooth down, hand 
over hand, his tousled hair. It was very thick hair, oily and 
coarse. When sufficiently smoothed it presented that shiny, 
slick appearance so much admired in the copper-toed, black 
walnut era. 

Not till each and every lock lay in perfect adjustment with 
its neighbour did the stranger speak. 

“Cooks mean a whole lot,” was his opening remark. “A 
good one can come mighty nigh holding a outfit together. 
Money ain’t to be sneezed at, neither. Good wages paid on 
the nail run the cook a close second. How would you boys 
like to work for me?” 

The stranger, as he asked the question, fixed Bacey with 


62 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


his black eyes. The puncher felt as if a steel drill were 
boring into his brain. But he returned the stare without 
appreciable effort. Racey Dawson was not of those that 
lower their eyes to any man. 

“I take it/’ drawled Racey, “that you’re fixing to install f 
all the comforts of home you were just now talking about — a, ; 
good cook and better wages for the honest working-man.? ” ! 

“Naturally I am.” The stranger’s eyes shifted to Swing i 
Tunstall’s face. 

“Yeah — naturally.” Thus Racey Dawson. The stranger’s | 
eyes returned quickly to Racey. Thete had been a barely 
perceptible pause between the two words uttered by Racey 
Dawson. Pauses signify a great deal at times. This might 
be one of those times and it might not. The stranger couldn’t 
be sure. From that moment the stranger watched Racey | 
Dawson even as the proverbial cat watches the mouse hole. j 
Racey knew that the stranger was watching him. And he i 
knew why. So he smiled with bland stupidity and nodded a i 
foolish head. 

“What wages?” he inquired. i 

“Fifty per,” was the reply. 

“Where?” 

“Southeast of Dogville — the Rafter H ranch.” ' 

“The Rafter H, huh? I thought that was Haley’s outfit.” 
“I expect to buy out Haley,” explained the stranger, 
smoothly. “My name’s Harpe, Jack Harpe. What may I I 

call you gents? . . . Dawson and Tunstall, eh? I ” j 

“Hale3^ ain’t much better than a nester,” interrupted 
Racey. “He don’t own more ’n forty cows. What you want i 
with two punchers for a small bunch like that — and at fifty i 
per?” I 

“I know she ain’t much of a ranch now,” admitted Jack ; 
Harpe. “But everything has to have a beginning. I’m [ 
figuring on a right smart growth for the Rafter H within the ; 
next year or two.” | 


CHANGE OF PLAN 63 

“Figuring on opposition maybe?” probed Racey Dawson. 

“You never can tell.” 

“You can if you go to cutting any of Baldy Barbee’s 
corners. Haley’s little bunch never bothers Baldy none, 
but a man-size outfit so close to the south thataway would 
shore give him something to think about. Then there’s the 
Anvil ranch east of the B bar B. They’ll begin to scratch 
their heads, you bet. Hall, too, maybe, although he is a good 
ways to the east.” 

“She’s all free range,” said Jack Harpe. “I guess I got as 
good a right here as the next gent.” 

“ Providing you can make the next gent see yore side of the 
case,” suggested Racey. 

“Most folks are willing to listen to reason,” stated Jack 
Harpe. 

“I ain’t so shore,” doubted Racey. “You ain’t looked at 
the whole of the layout yet. How about the 88 ranch?” 

“ ‘The 88 ? ’ ” repeated Jack Harpe in a tone of surprise. 
“What’ll I have to do with the 88, I’d like to know?” 

“I dunno,” said Racey, his eyes more stupid than ever. 
“I was just a-wonderin’.” 

Jack Harpe laughed without a sound. It seemed to be a 
habit of his to laugh silently. 

“You saw me with Lanpher, didn’t you? Well, Lanpher 
and I are just friends, thassall. My cattle won’t graze far 
enough south to overlap on the 88 anywheres.” 

“Nor the Bar S?” suggested Racey. 

“Nor the Bar S.” 

“That’s sensible.” Thus Racey, watching closely Jack 
Harpe from under lowered lids. 

Did his last remark strike a glint from the other man’s 
eyes? He thought it did. Certainly Jack Harpe’s eyes had 
narrowed suddenly and slightly. 

“Yeah,” Jack Harpe said, “I ain’t counting on having any 
fussing with either the 88 or the Bar S. Of course Baldy 


64 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Barbee and the Anvil are difiPerent. Dunno how they’ll take 
it. Dunno that I care — much.” 

“Which is why you’re payin’ fifty per.” 

Jack Harpe nodded. “Yep. Gotta be prepared for them 
fellers — Baldy Barbee and the Anvil outfit.” 

“You’re right,” assented Racey Dawson. “Mustn’t let 
’em catch you napping. You would look foolish then, 
wouldn’t you.^” He broke off with a sounding laugh and 
slapped a silly leg. 

“How about it, gents.?^” inquired Jack Harpe. “Are you 
riding for me or not.?” 

“You wanting to know right now this minute.?” 

“I don’t have to know right now, because I won’t be ready 
for you to begin for two or three weeks, but knowing would 
help my plans a few. I gotta figure things out ahead.” 

“Shore, shore. Let you know day after to-morrow, or 
sooner, maybe. How’s that.?” 

“Good enough. Remember yore wages start the day you 
say when, even if you don’t begin work for a month yet. All 
I’d ask is for you to stay round town where I can get hold of i 
you easy. G’night.” 

With this the stranger slid from the chair, opened the door j 
part way, and oozed into the hall. He closed the door with- 
out a sound. He regained his own room in equal silence. 
Racey did not hear the shutting of the other’s door, but he ; 
heard the springs of the cot squeak under Jack Harpe’s weight I 
as he lay down. j 

Swing Tunstall framed a remark with his lips only. Racey 
Dawson shook his head. The partition was too thin and i 
Jack Harpe’s ears were too long and sharp for him to risk 
even the tiniest of whispers. With his hand he made the 
Indian sign for “to-morrow,” stretched out his long legs, 
yawned — and fell almost instantly asleep. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE RIDDLE 

W E’D oughta closed with Jack Harpe last night,” said 
Swing Tunstall, easing his muscular body down 
on a broken packing-case that sat drunkenly be- 
side the posts of the hostel corral. “What’s the sense of 
putting things off thataway, Racey? Now we’ll lose two 
days’ wages for nothing.” 

“I had a reason,” declared Racey Dawson, threading a 
new rawhide string through one of the silver conchas on his 
split-ear bridle. “I wanted to talk it over good with you 
first.” 

“Why for.^ What’s there to talk over, I’d like to know? 
Why ” 

“Because,” interrupted Racey, “there’s something up, if 
you ask me.” 

“What for a reason is that?” demanded the irritated 
Swing. “That ain’t a reason, no good reason, anyway. I’m 
telling you flat, y’ understand, that so long as we gotta take 
root here instead of going to Arizona like we’d planned it out — 
so long’s yo’re gonna renig on the play like I say, the best 
thing we can do is string our chips with Jack Harpe’s.” 

“That yore idea of a bright thing to do, huh?” questioned 
Racey, his nimble fingers busy with the rawhide. 

“I done told you,” said Swing with dignity. 

“Poor, poor Swing,” murmured Racey as though to the 
bridle’s address. “ The Gawd-forsaken young feller. It must 
be the devil and all to go through life in such shape as he’s 
in. All right in lots of ways, too. He eats like a hawg, 

65 


66 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


drinks like a fish, and snores like a ripsaw, so you can see 
there’s something almost human about him. But he hasn’t 
any brains, not a brain. He never has anything on his mind 
but his hair and a hat. Yep, she’s a sad, sad case. Lordy, 
Swing, old-timer, I feel sorry for you. You got my sympa- 
thy. I’ll always stick up for you though. I won’t let ” 

“This here,” cut in Swing, “has gone far enough. If you 
got anything to say, say it.” 

“I been saying it. Ain’t it sunk in yet.^ Hand me that 
axe, and I’ll make another try.” 

“Stop yore fool lallygaggin’,” Swing exclaimed, im- 
patiently. “Let’s have the whole sermon. Gawd, yo’re 
worse’n a woman. Gab, gab, gab! Nothing but. C’mon, 
tie the string to the latch, and slam the door. This tooth has 
been aching a long, long while.” 

“It’s thisaway. Swing,” Racey said, soberly. “There 
ain’t any manner of use going into something we ain’t got the 
whole straight of.” 

“What you talking about — the straight of?” 

“Yep, the straight of. Don’t you see anything funny 
about this jigger’s offer?” 

“Looks like a fair proposition to me. Fifty per shore 
listens well.” 

“As if that’s all of it.” 

“Well, what’s a li’l fussin’ round with Baldy Barbee and 
the Anvil folks?” 

“Nothin a-tall, that ain’t. But the li’l green pea ain’t 
under that shell. Listen here. Swing, old-timer, I got a long 
and gashly tale of wickedness to pour into those lily-white 
mule ears of yores. Yep, if it wasn’t me a-telling it I’ll bet 
you’d think it was a fairy tale.” 

“I might even so,” said the sceptical Swing. “But I 
don’t mind. I’m good-natured to-day. I feel just like being 
lied to. Turn yore wolf loose.” 


THE RIDDLE 


67 


“What do you feed it on?” inquired solemn-faced Swing 
when he had heard Racey to the bitter end. 

“Feed which on what? ” demanded the unsuspicious Racey. 

“Yore imagination.” 

“Say, lookit here ” 

“ Yeah, I know. Oh, aw right, aw right, I didn’t go for to 
make you mad. I believe it. Every word. You’re getting 
so dam touchy nowadays, Racey, they’s no living with you. 
I awear they ain’t. Why, if a feller so much as doubts one of 
yore reg’lar fish stories you gotta crawl his hump. Aw right, 
I believe you. How big was he again? Ugh-h-h! Uncle! 
Uncle! Get off my stummick! I said ‘Uncle,’ didn’t I? 
Damitall, that left ear of mine will never be the same again. 
You rammed it into a rock with more points than a barb-wire 
fence. Nemmine no more foolin’ now. Are you shore you 
got Peaches fixed for three-four days? ’Cause if you ain’t 
— ^pop goes the weasel.” 

“This weasel ain’t gonna pop. Not this trip. Peaches 
will stay put. Don’t you fret. By the time he does drift 
in we’ll know all we need to know, I guess.” 

“We,” sniffed Swing. “Did I hear you say ‘we’? Ain’t 
you taking a awful lot for granted?” 

“ Shut up. I couldn’t keep you out of this with a ten-foot 
pole. Yo’re like Tom Kane thataway — always wantin’ in 
where it’s warm. Aw right, that’s settled. Lookit, we 
know there’s some crooked work on the towpath going on, 
and that Lanpher and Harpe are in it up to their hocks. We 
know that Nebraska is one of Harpe’s friends, and we know 
that after my fuss with Nebraska, Harpe comes to you and 
me and offers us jobs — jobs at fifty per, wages to start when 
we say when, and no work for a while, yet we’re to stay round 
town till he wants us to start in. And he talks of maybe a li’l 
trouble in the future with Baldy Barbee and the Anvil boys, 
and he mentions Baldy and the Anvil severial times, and 
the last time wasn’t necessary. And, furthermore, he don’t 


68 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


say anything a-tall about this Chin Whisker gent, who’s old 
Dale or I’m Dutch. So there y’are, and plain enough,” 
added Racey, holding up the bridle and turning it about. 
“From what Harpe said to Lanpher, we know he’s bound to 
get old Dale’s ranch come hell or high water. But he don’t 
say anything about that to us. No, not him. It’s all Bar- 
bee and the Anvil, and he’s as friendly as a dog with fleas. 
His actions don’t fit with the facts, and when a man’s actions 
don’t do that they’ll stand watchin’, him and them both.” 

“Fifty per ain’t to be sneezed at.” Swing, whose heart had 
been set on Arizona, was not prepared to give in without an 
argument. Besides, he invariably objected on principle to 
anything Racey might see fit to propose. Which was 
humanly natural, but more than maddening — to Racey. 

“Shore not — unless it sets us against our friends.” 

“What you talkin’ about?” persisted the wilfully blinded 
Swing. “Neither Baldy Barbee nor the Anvil outfit are any 
friends of mine. I don’t even know ’em to speak to.” 

“But I tell you it ain’t Baldy Barbee and the Anvil, you 
wooden-headed floop. If it was them, why would Lanpher be 
in it? And Nebraska? And Thompson? And Peaches Aus- 
tin? I dunno exactly what it all means. But whatever it is, it’s 
gotta do with the country round Farewell — ^with the ranches 
on the Lazy. Aw right. Besides Dale’s and Morgan’s 
there’s three ranches, ain’t they, on the Lazy near Farewell?” 

Racey Dawson held up three fingers, doubling a thumb 
and forefinger behind them. 

“Three ranches,” he continued, “and the manager of one 
is in cahoots with this Harpe of many strings.” Here he 
doubled down his pinky and waved the remaining two fingers 
in the face of his friend. “Two ranches are left, the Cross- 
in-a-box and the Bar S. Jack Richie is manager of the Cross- 
in-a-box. I used to ride for Jack, and he’s my friend. You 
dujmo him, but you can take my word he’s the pure quill 
forty ways. Then there’s the Bar S. Who’s foreman of 


THE RIDDLE 


69 


that? Tom Loudon. You worked with him up at Scotty 
MacKenzie’s Flyin’ M ranch on the Dogsoldier, and I’ve 
knowed him ever since I come to this country. I ain’t 
doing anything to make me bad friends with Tom Loudon. 
Then there’s Dale, this Chin Whisker party. He’s a good 
feller, and had a heap of hard luck, too. I ain’t working 
against him, you betcha. Nawsir. And if I don’t miss my 
guess you don’t, either.” 

“Aw, hell! They ain’t no rat in that hole. Yo’re seein’ a 
heap o’ smoke where they ain’t even a lighted match. I 
don’t wanna do anything against either Richie’s outfit nor 
the Bar S, nor old Dale, but I ain’t satisfied ” 

“You ain’t! Good Gawdamighty! Ain’t I been tellin’ 
you? Ain’t I been explaining of it all in words of one syl- 
lable? Can’t you see Harpe’s trying to pull us in with him 
is just a trick to get us shot by our friends? Because his 
jumping old Dale’s ranch will shore start a war and you can 
gamble it’s just as dangerous to be shot by yore friends as it 
is by the enemy. Here I’m telling you over and over and 
you ain’t satisfied yet ! I’ve heard of fellers like you, but I 
never believed it was possible. Like the whiffle-tit, they 
were just a damn lie. But it’s all true. Swing, old settler, if 
you had a quarter-ounce more sense you’d be half-witted.” 

“If I had a quarter-ounce more sense I’d quit you cold like 
that.” So saying Swing Tuns tall rose to his feet and shuflied 
a guileful step or two closer to Racey. The movement of his 
right arm passed unnoticed by Racey. But the lighted 
cigarette that, following his movement, slipped down Racey’s 
back between his shirt collar and his neck did not pass un- 
noticed. 

Racey hopped up with a sharp exclamation and shucked 
himself out of his shirt with the utmost despatch. He did 
not stop at the shirt, but tore off his undershirt likewise. 

“Better luck than I hoped for,” Swing remarked from a 
safe distance. “I didn’t think it would slide down inside 


70 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


yore undershirt, too. Burn you much, Racey, dear? You 
look awful cute standin’ there with nothing on but yore 
pants. All you need now is a pair of wings and a bow 
n’arrer and you’d be a dead ringer for Cupid growed up. 
And there’s Mis’ Lainey and Mis’ Calloway looking at you 
from their kitchen windows. They can hear what yo’re 
saying, too. Fie, for shame.” 

But Racey Dawson had gathered up his clothing and fled 
to the back of the corral. Muttering to himself he was pull- 
ing on his shirt when Swing joined him — at a safe distance. 

“Helluva trick to play on a feller,” grumbled Racey. 

“Served you right,” was the return. “You hadn’t oughta 
called me half-witted. Do you know you look just like a 
turtle in his shell with yore shirt half on half off thataway?” 

“Aw, go sit on yoreself!” 

At this juncture fat Bill Lainey wheezed round the corner 
of the corral. 

“What you been doin’, Racey?” inquired the hotel-keeper. 
“Taking a bath?” 

“Naw, I ain’t been taking a bath!” Racey denied un- 
graciously. “I do this for fun and my health twice a day — 
once on Sundays.” 

“W^ell, it must ’a’ been a heap funny whatever it was, or 
Swing wouldn’t be laughin’ so hard. Yeah. Lookit, Racey 
— I meant to catch you at breakfast, but you was through 
before I got back from Mike Flynn’s — ^lookit, I wish you’d go 
a li’l slow when yo’re roughhousin’ round in my place. Rack 
Slimson, my most payin’ customer, hadda sleep on the dinin’ 
room table all night because you druv him out of his room.” 

“Bill, that was a joke,” Racey intoned, solemnly. “I 
didn’t like the way the feller snored. Likewise he had too 
much to say. So naturally I had to make him take it on the 
run. What else could I do? I ask you, what else could I 
dor 

“Don’t you believe him. Bill,” cut in Swing, fearful that 


THE RIDDLE 


71 


Racey would get credit for an effort at humour where, in his 
own estimation, none was due. “Racey hasn’t got the guts 
to pick a fuss with a pack rat. It was me that chased Rack 
Slimson downstairs.” 

“That’s right,” Racey assented, smoothly, suddenly mind- 
ful both of a peculiar gleam in Bill Lainey’s eye and a chance, 
sentence uttered by the hasher in his hearing at breakfast. 
“That’s right. It was Swing Tunstall what made so free and 
outrageous with Rack Slimson. You go and crawl Swing’s 
hump. Bill. Lord knows he needs it. He’s been getting aw- 
ful brash and uppity lately. No living with him. Give him 
hell. Bill.” 

“I don’t wanna give nobody hell. Live at peace is my 
motto. All I wanna know is who’s gonna settle for six cups, 
eleven sassers, ten plates, and a middle-size pitcher Rack 
Slimson busted when he rolled off the table with ’em durin’ the 
night. I don’t think Rack oughta hafta pay, because he 
wouldn’t ’a’ had to sleep there on the table only bein’ druv 
out thataway he couldn’t help it like.” 

“Huh — how much, Bill.^” inquired Swing in a still small 
voice, and thrust his hand within his pocket. 

“Well, seein’ as it’s you. Swing,” was the prompt reply, 
“ I’ll only say ten dollars and six bits. And that’s dirt cheap. 
Honest, I’ll bet it’ll cost me fifteen dollars and a half to re- 
place ’em, what with the scandalous prices we got now.” 

“And I hope that’ll make you a better boy. Swing,” said 
Racey, observing with relish the transfer of real money from 
Swing’s hand to the landlord’s palm. “There’s such a thing. 
Swing, old settler, as being too quick, as whirling too wide a 
loop as the man said when he roped the locomotive. And it 
all costs money. Yep, sometimes as much as ten dollars and 
six bits.” 

. and one and one and two makes ten and six 
bits makes ten-seventy-five,” totalled Swing Tunstall, “and 
that makes all square.” 


72 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Correct,” said Bill Lainey, stuffing the money into a wide 
trousers pocket. “ ’Bliged to you, Swing. I wish all the 
gents paid up as prompt as you do.” 

“Oh, you needn’t be surprised,” chipped in the ready 
Racey. “Swing’s a fair-minded boy. He’ll do what’s 
right every time, once you show him where he’s wrong. 
Yeah. Say, Bill, has Nebraska Jones many friends in this 
town?” 

“More than enough,” was the enigmatic reply. 

“‘Enough,’ huh? Enough for what?” 

“For whatever’s necessary, Racey. But I ain’t talking 
about Nebraska and his friends. Not me. I got a wife and 
family to support, and they’s enough trouble running a hotel 
without picking up any more by letting yore tongue waggle ^ 
too much.” 

“Yo’re right. Bill. Yore views do you credit. Is it 
against the law to tell a feller where Nebraska’s friends hang 
out when they’re in town?” 

“The dance hall and the Starlight,” replied Bill Lainey, ; 
promptly. ; 

“Might you happen to know any of their names. Bill?” | 

“What you wanna do, Racey, is look out for a jigger 
named Coffin,” declared Lainey, coming flatly to the point. | 
“Doc Coffin. Yop. Then they’s Punch-the-Breeze Thomp- I 
son. Honey Hoke, and Peaches Austin. They’s a few more, ' 
but they ain’t the kind to take the lead in anything. They 
always follow. But Coffin, Thompson, Hoke, and Austin are i 
the gents to keep yore eye peeled for. I ain’t talking about ] 
’em, y’ understand. I ain’t got a word to say against ’em, ' 
not a word. If I was you, though, and I wanted to live i 
longer and healthier Doc Coffibi is the one you wanna watch | 
special — a heap special.” 

“Thanks, Bill, I ” ! 

“No thanks needed,” fended off the hotel-keeper, hastily, j 
“I ain’t said nothin’, and don’t you forget it.” 


THE RIDDLE 73 

‘T won’t. Is the Starlight’s owner. Rack Slimson, any 
friend of Nebraska’s, too?” 

“We-ell, I dunno as he’s a boom companion exactly, but 
Nebraska and his bunch spend a pile of money in the Star- 
light, a pile of money. A feller would be safe in saying that 
Rack Slimson’s sympathy is with Nebraska.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE STARLIGHT 

W HERE you going?” demanded Swing Tunstall. 

“Over the hills and far away to pick the wild 
violets,” chanted Racey. “You wanna come 
along? Better not. Them violets are just too awful wild. 
Dangerous. Yeah. Catch yore death.” 

“You id jit! You plumb fool! Can’t you let well enough 
alone? Ain’t you satisfied till yo’re ticklin’ the mule’s hind 
leg? If yo’re crowded, hop to it. Make ’em hard to find. 

But why go a-huntin’ trouble? Whatsa sense? What ” 

“Always get the jump on trouble, Swing. Always. Then 
you’ll find trouble don’t wear so many guns after all and is a 
heap slower about pulling ’em than you thought likely.” 

“But if they’re all four of ’em together now, and you ” 

“I ain’t said I was going to do anything, have I? Gawda- 
mighty. Swing, I only want to go and ask how Nebraska’s 
gettin’ along. Only tryin’ to be neighbourly. Yeah. 
Neighbourly.” 

Racey Dawson nodded his head as one does when a sub- 
ject is closed, hitched up his chaps, and started blithely round 
the hotel. Swing Tunstall followed in haste, caught up with 
his friend and fell into step at his side. 

“This ain’t any of yore muss. Swing,” Racey said, mildly. 
“It’s gonna be,” was the determined reply. “You shut 
up.” 

Racey grinned at nothing and stuck his tongue in his 
cheek. A warmly pleasant glow permeated his being. It 
was good to have a friend like Swing Tunstall — one who would 

74 


THE STARLIGHT 


75 


not interfere but who would be in alert readiness for any 
contingency. And Racey was well aware that in his im- 
pending visit to the Starlight the contingencies were apt to be 
many and varied. 

“ It’s so early in the day I don’t guess none of ’em will be 
in the dance hall yet,” murmured Swing Tunstall. 

“I’m gonna drop in on the Starlight first, anyway,” said 
Racey. “It’s nearer.” 

Through a side window they inspected the Starlight and 
the customers thereof. Only two customers were visible. 
These, a long man and a short man, stood at the bar, their 
backs to the window and their hands cupped lovingly round 
glasses of refreshment. The tall man was talking to the bar- 
tender. 

“This getting up so early in the mornin’ is a fright,” they 
heard him complain. “But bunking with a invalid shore 
does keep you on the jump.” 

He and his companion drank. Racey Dawson and Swing 
Tunstall glided rapidly along the wall to a side entrance. 
When the tall man and the short man set down their glasses 
Racey Dawson was leaning against the bar at a range of 
approximately six feet. Swing Tunstall stood at his back 
and slightly to the right. Thus that, should necessity 
warrant a resort to lethal weapons, Racey might not mask 
the latter’s fire. 

“Liquor,” said Racey to the bartender. 

The latter, an expert at his trade, with a jerk of both 
wrists slid two glasses and a bottle down the bar so that a 
glass stopped in front of each man and the bottle came to a 
standstill between them. Racey spun a dollar on the bar. 
The bartender nonchalantly swept the dollar into the cash 
drawer and resumed his chit-chat with the tall man. At 
which Racey’s eyes narrowed slightly. But he made no 
comment. 

Pouring out a short drink, he passed the bottle to his com- 


76 


THE HEAET OF THE RANGE 


rade. When Swing had filled Racey took the bottle, drove 
home the cork with the heel of his hand, and carefully tucked 
away the bottle in the inner pocket of his vest. 

“It won’t ride any too well,” he observed to Swing, “but it 
ain’t gonna be there a great while, I guess.” 

“You bet it ain’t gonna be there a great while!” horned in 
the outraged bartender. “You put that bottle back on the 
bar!” 

“Why, I gave you a dollar,” said Racey, nervously, hesi- 
tantly, “ and you kept the change. I supposed, of course, you 
was selling me the bottle.” 

“You supposed wrong!” As he spoke the bartender’s 
right hand moved toward the shelf that Racey knew must be 
under the top of the bar. “That dollar was for yore two 
drinks.” 

“You mean to say yo’re charging four bits apiece for those 
drinks!” j 

“Shore I am.” As yet the bartender’s hand had remained j 
beneath the bar top. ! 

“But two bits is the regular price,” objected Racey, weakly, j 
“Four bits is the price to you,” was the truculent state- | 
ment, sticking out his chin. Put that bottle back on the bar / ” 
As he gave the order his right shoulder hunched upward, j 
and his face set like iron. He had what is known as a “fight- 1 
ing” face, this Starlight bartender. It was evident that he S 
banked largely on that face. It had served him well in the j 
past. I 

“One dollar is my regular price for a bottle,” Racey said j 
gently as the bartender’s hand suddenly flipped into sight f 
clutching a sixshooter, “but if you want it back, take it.” i 
Racey ’s fingers gripped the bottle-neck and fetched it! 
forth. But instead of placing it on the top of the bar as re- [ 
quested, he continued the motion, as it were, and smote the 
bartender across the head with it. Being a quart bottle and ( 
reasonably full of liquid, the bartender’s chin came down with ! 


THE STARLIGHT 


77 


a chug on the bar. Then he slumped quietly to the floor be- 
hind the bar. The sixshooter relinquished by his nerveless 
fingers remained on top of the bar between the whiskey 
glasses. 

Racey stared speculatively at the long man and the short 
man. They in turn regarded him with something like respect. 
The long man wore a drooping, streaky-yellow horseshoe of a 
moustache dominated by a long and melancholy nose. Flank- 
ing the base of this sorrowful nose was a pair of eyes hard and 
bright and the palest of blue. 

The short man was a blobby-nosed creature, who sported 
a three days’ growth of red beard and a quid of chewing in the 
angle of a heavy jaw. Now he revolved the tobacco with a 
furtive tongue and spat thickly upon the floor. 

Without removing his eyes from the two aforementioned 
gentlemen Racey reached for the bartender’s gun. “Hadn’t 
oughta be trusted with firearms,” he observed, pleasantly, 
referring to what lay behind the bar. “Too venturesome. 
Yeah.” 

He thoughtfully lowered the hammer of the sixshooter and 
rammed it down to the trigger-guard behind the waistband of 
his trousers. 

“Do you gents know anybody named Doc Coflan?” in- 
quired Racey. 

“I’m him,” nodded the tall man, the pale eyes beginning 
to glitter. 

“Then maybe you can tell me how Nebraska Jones isgettin’ 
along?” 

“You worrying about his health?” put in the short man. 

“I dunno as I’d say ‘worrying’ exactly,” disclaimed Racey, 
easily. “You can take it I’m just askin’, that’s all.” 

“Nebraska had oughta be as well as ever he was in about a 
month,” supplied Doc Coflin. “And,” he added, signifi- 
cantly, “I dunno but what he’d oughta be able to shoot as 
well as ever.” 


78 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ I don’t doubt it a mite,” said Racey with a smile. “Ques- 
tion is, will he.^” 

The short man gave a short, harsh laugh. “He will, you 
can gamble on that,” he averred, and spat again. 

“That’s good hearing,” Racey said, looking quite pleased. 
“Of course I was only judging by past performances.” 

“His gun caught,” Doc Coffin explained, kindly. 

“Why don’t he try filing off his foresight. ” inquired Racey, 
chattily. “Or else he could shoot through his holster. Lots 
of folks do business that way. I suppose now you’ll be seeing 
Nebraska in a day or two maybe.” 

“I might,” admitted Doc Coffin. 

“Friend of his?” purred Racey. 

“I might be.” Doc Coffin’s spare frame grew somewhat 
rigid. 

“Well,” Racey drawled softly, “I heard Nebraska’s friends 
are looking for me. I’m here to save ’em the trouble of 
strainin’ their eyes.” 

“ So that’s it, huh? ” Doc Coffin grinned, as he spoke, like 
a grieving wolf. “They ain’t no hurry, is they? ” 

“I expect I’ll be round Farewell a spell,” said Racey. 

“Then they ain’t no hurry,” Doc Coffin told him smoothly. 

“None a-tall,” contributed the short man. 

“That’s the way to look at it,” laughed Racey. “I shore 
don’t care anything about bein’ pushed. Have a drink on 
me.” 

He slid in their direction the bottle with which he had 
knocked down the bartender, and, accompanied and imi- 
tated by Swing Tunstall, departed from that place crabwise. 

When they were gone Doc Coffin looked at his companion. 

“Asking for it. Honey,” said Doc Coffin. “ Just asking for 
it.” 

Then he went behind the bar, seized the senseless bar- 
tender by the ankles and skidded him out on the barroom 
floor. The man whom Doc Coffin had addressed as Honey 


THE STARLIGHT 


79 


(his other name was Hoke) spread his legs and whistled 
when he glimpsed the three-inch cut running fore and aft 
along the top of the bartender’s skull. Blood from that cut 
had dribbled and oozed over the major portion of the bar- 
tender’s face and shirt. For it had been the bartender’s luck 
to hook his chin on the edge of the lowest shelf when he 
dropped and he had perforce remained crown upward. 

Doc Coflfin stood back and stared at the stertorously 
breathing lump on the floor with a cold eye. 

“Ain’t he a mess?” he observed. “Ain’t he a mess? I 
expect he’ll be right down peevish about it when he comes 
to.” 

“Think so?” Honey Hoke was not quite sure of the point 
of Doc’s remark. 

“Yeah, I think so. I’m shore he will when I tell him how 
he was kicked.” 

“Kicked?” 

“Shore kicked. Kicked after he was down.” 

“How?” 

“Didn’t you see that feller Dawson kick Bull when he was 
down? Where was yore eyes?” 

“That’s the way of it, huh? Well, it might save trouble 
if Bull was to go on the prod real vicious.” 

“Yo’re whistlin’. They ain’t no manner of reason for 
doin’ a job yoreself if you can get somebody else to do it for 

When Bull came to he was lying on his cot in his little 
cubby hole adjoining the back room of the Starlight. Over 
across from the bed Doc Coffin was looking out of the grimy 
window. Behind the closed door giving egress to the back 
room certain folk were busy at faro. “King win, ten lose,” 
the dealer was saying. 

Doc Coffin turned at the rustle of Bull’s slight movement. 
Doc nodded grimly. 

“How’s the head?” he inquired. 


80 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Bull put up a hand to the bandage encircling his bullet 
head and swore feelingly. 

“Guess it does hurt some,” was Doc’s comment. “Doc 
Alton took three stitches. Lucky you was still senseless. He 
had to use a harness-needle.” 

Bull heartily damned Doc Alton, his methods, the faro 
players in the next room, himself, and wound up with a 
blistering curse directed against mankind in general and 
Racey Dawson in particular. 

“Tha’s right. Bull,” Doc Cofl&n applauded dryly. “Cuss 
him out. Give him hell. Must do you a lot of good.” 

Bull was understood to consign Doc Coflfin to the region of 
lost souls. 

“ I’d go a leetle slow,” advised Doc Coffin, gently. “Just a 
leetle slow if I was you. Yo’re on yore back now, but you’ll 
be getting all right in a li’l while, and it’s just possible. Bull, I 
might take it into my head to ask you what you meant by all 
them cuss words yo’ throwin’ at me.” 

There was an icy gnht in the pale blue eyes of Doc Coffin. 
Bull shut up and subsided. 

“What,” queried Doc Coffin after a momentary silence, 
“was the matter with you?” 

“With me?” 

“Shore, with you. Who’m I talking to? What was the 
matter with you, anyway? Don’t you know any better ’n to 
go up against a jigger like that Dawson man? Yo’re too 
cripplin’ slow with a gun, feller.” 

“Well, I ” 

“Y’oughta had him twice while he was swinging that 
bottle. . . , Yeah, twice, I’m tellin’ you. You had 
time enough. But not you. You just stood there like a 
bump on a log and let him hit you. Yo’re a fine-lookin’ 
example of a two-legged man, you are. If you ain’t careful. 
Bull, some two-year-old infant is gonna come along and spit 
in yore eye.” 


THE STARLIGHT 81 

“ He was so damn quick,” alibied Bull. “ I wasn’t expectin’ 
it.” 

“A whole lot of folks are underground because they didn’t 
expect to get what they got. Yo’re lucky to be lyin’ there 
with only a headache. Still, alia same, he needn’t ’a’ 
kicked you.” 

“Huh.?^ Kicked me? You mean to say he kicked me? 
Dawson kicked me?” 

“Shore I mean to say Dawson kicked you. Kicked you 
when you was lyin’ there down and out and senseless.” 

A moment Bull lay quietly. Then when the full import of 
Doc Coffin’s words had percolated through and through his 
brain he pulled himself to a sitting posture and swung a leg 
to the floor. Doc Coffin was beside him instantly. 

“Lie down, you idjit!” commanded Doc Coffin, and with 
no gentle hand shoved Bull down upon his pillow. “ Whadda 
you think yo’re gonna do?” 

“I’m goin’ out and fill that full of lead.” 

“Oh, you are, huh? Yo’re gonna do all that? Tha’s fine. 
Do you want a quiet burial or a regular funeral?” 

‘‘Say ” 

“Say yoreself, and say something sensible while yo’re 
about it.” 

“Nobody can kick me and get away with it ! ” Bull declared, 
passionately. “ I’ll ” 

“Maybe you will, but not in a hurry. You start out after 
him now, and you wouldn’t last as long as a short drink in a 
roomful of drunkards. Didn’t you hear about Dawson’s li’l 
run-in with Nebraska?” 

“Hell, I it!” 

“You seen it, huh? And you know what he done to you 
to-day, and still you wanna paint for war now and im- 
mediate? No, Bully, not a-tall. You listen to me. I got a 
better plan. A whole lot better plan. Lookit . . .” 


CHAPTER IX 


THROWING SAND 

A FTER leaving the Starlight, on their way back to the 
hotel, Racey said to Swing Tunstall: ‘‘Might as 
jL a. well tell Jack Harpe now we ain’t gonna ride for him, 
huh?” 

“Oh, shore,” Swing sighed resignedly. “ Have it yore own 
way ! Have it yore own way ! I never seen such a feller as 
you for gettin’ his own way in all my life.” 

“Yo’re young yet — maybe you will,” said Racey, con- 
solingly. “ So don’t get discouraged.” 

They did not find Jack Harpe at the hotel, nor was he at the 
Happy Heart. But in the saloon Luke Tweezy was drinking 
by himself at one end of the bar. Perhaps the money-lender 
would know the whereabouts of Jack Harpe. 

“’Lo, Luke,” was Racey’s greeting. “Seen Jack Harpe 
around anywheres?” 

Luke Tweezy’s thin and sandy eyebrows lifted up in 
what would pass with almost any one for surprise. 
“Who?” 

“Jack Harpe.” 

“Dunno him.” Indifferently — too indifferently. 

“You dunno him — long, slim feller, black hair and eyes, 
and a hawky kind of nose? Jack Harpe. Shore you know 
him. Why, I seen- ” Racey broke off abruptly. 

“Yeah,” prompted Luke Tweezy after an interval. “You 
seen — what?” 

“I don’t see why you dunno him,” parried Racey (it was a 
weak parry, but the best he could encompass at the moment) . 

, 82 


THROWING SAND 


83 


“I thought you knowed him. Somebody told me you did. 
My mistake. No harm done. Have a drink, Luke.” 

“Who told you I knowed this here now Jack Harpe.^” 
probed Luke Tweezy, when he had smacked his lips over a 
second drink. 

“ I don’t remember now,” evaded Racey Dawson. “ What 
does it matter.^^” 

“It don’t matter,” was the answer — the miffed answer it 
seemed to Racey. “It don’t matter a-tall. Have one on 
me, boys. Don’t be afraid to fill ’em up. They’s plenty 
more on the back shelf when this one’s empty.” 

They filled and drank, filled and drank. Swing thought 
that he had never seen Racey overtaken by liquor so quickly. 
In no time he was telling Luke Tweezy the most intimate de- 
tails of his private life. Swing knew that these details were a 
string of lies. But Luke Tweezy could not know that. He 
put an affectionate hand on Racey ’s shoulder and begged for 
more. He got it. 

When Racey ran down and reverted to the bottle, Luke 
Tweezy generously purchased a second and invited him and 
his friend to a vacant table in the corner of the room. It was 
an amazing sight. Luke Tweezy the money-lender, the man 
who was supposed to still possess the first dollar he ever 
earned, had actually bought three eighths of one bottle of 
whiskey and the whole of another. 

Racey Dawson greatly desired to laugh. But he didn’t 
dare. He was too busy being drunk and getting drunker. 
Swing Tunstall,slow in the uptake as usual, perceived nothing 
beyond the fact that Luke Tweezy had suddenly become a 
careless spendthrift till halfway down the second bottle when 
Luke said: 

“Shore is funny how you thought I knowed this Jack 
Harpe.” 

“ Yuh-yeah,” assented Racey, and overset a glass in such a 
way that four fingers of raw liquor splashed into Luke 


84 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Tweezy’s lap. “S’funny all right — an’ that’s fuf -funnier,” 
he added as Luke and his chair scraped backward to avoid the 
drip. “D’l wet yuh all up, Lul-luke? Mum-my min-mis- 
take. I’m makin’ lul-lots of mistakes to-day.” 

Luke Tweezy twisted his leathery features into his best 
smile. ‘Tt don’t matter,” he told Racey. “Not a-tall. 
I-uh-who was it told you I knowed this Jack Harpe?” 

“Dud-don’t remember,” denied Racey. 

“Think,” urged Luke Tweezy. 

“Am thu-thinkin’,” Racey said, crossly. “What you 
wanna know for?” 

“I don’t like to have folks talkin’ so loose and free about 
me,” was the Tweezy explanation. 

“Duh-hic-quite right,” higcuped Racey Dawson. “An’ 
you are, too, y’old catawampus. You a friend o’ mim-mine, 
Lul-luke?” 

“Shore,” said Luke, with an eye out for another upset 
glass. 

“Then lend me huh-hundred dollars, Lul-Luke.” 

“Lend you a hundred dollars! On what security?” 

“My wuh-word,” Racey strove to say with dignity. 
“Ain’t that enough?” 

“Shore, but — but I ain’t got a hundred dollars with me 
to-day.” 

“Bub-but you can gug-get it,” Racey insisted, weaving his 
head from side to side in a snake-like manner. 

“We-ell, I dunno. You see, Racey ” 

“I nun-need the money,” interrupted Racey. “I’m 
broke — bub-broke bad. Swing’s broke, too. That’s too bad — 
I mean that’s two bub-boke brad — whistle twice for the 

crossing — I mean ^Aw, hell, I know whu-what I mean if- 

fif you don’t. You lul-lend me that mum-money, Lul-Luke, 
like a good feller.” 

Luke Tweezy shook a regretful head. “I’m shore sorry 
you and Swing are busted, Racey. I’d do anything for you 


THROWING SAND 


85 


I could in reason. You know damwell I would, but money’s 
tight with me just now. I ain’t really got a cent I can lend. 
Got a mortgage cornin’ due next month, but that ain’t now, 
of course.” 

“Of course not. Huh-how could you think it was now.^ 
Huh-how could you, Lul-Luke? Dud-do you know the child 
ain’t a year old yet.?” 

“Child.? What child.?” Luke Tweezy began to look 
alarmed. 

“What child?” frowned Racey Dawson, sitting up very 
straight and throwing a chest. “That child over there by 
the doorway — ^there in the streak o’ sush-shine. Aw, the 
cute li’l feller! See him playin’ with Windy Taylor’s spurs. 
Ain’t he cunnin’.?” 

“With most of ’em it’s elephants and snakes an’ such,” 
proffered Luke Tweezy. 

“Yeah,” assented Swing Tunstall. “A kid is something 
new.” 

“Thu-then you can’t lend me that money?” Racey in- 
quired, querulously. 

“No, Racey, I can’t. Honest, I’d Hke to. Nothin’ I’d 
like better. Only the way I’m fixed just now it’s plain flat 
impossible.” 

“Then I s’puh-s’puh-s’pose I’ll have to touch the Bar S folks 
or the Cross-in-a-box. I gotta have money. Gug-gotta. 
They’re my friends. They’ll give it to mum-me. Shore they 
will gimme all I want. They’re all my friends^ I tell you!” 

As Racey uttered the word “friends” his toe pressed Swing 
Tunstall’s instep. 

“They’re Swing’s friends, too,” continued Racey. “Ain’t 
they, Sus-Swing?” Again the Dawson toe bore down upon 
the Tunstall foot. 

“Shore they are,” chimed in Swing, watching his friend 
closely — so closely that he was able to catch the extremely 
slight nod of approbation given by Racey. 


86 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


‘‘Thu-there’s Tom Loudon an’ Tim Pup-pup-page of the 
Bub-bar S,” stuttered Racey, gazing blearily at Luke Tweezy. 
“Bub-best fuf -friends I ever had, them tut-two fellers. An’ 
Old Man Sus-Saltoun. There’s a pup-prince for you. Gug- 
give you the shirt off his bub-back.” 

Which last was stretching it rather. For Old Man Sal- 
toun, while not precisely stingy, was certainly not the 
most generous person in the territory. Nor did it escape 
Racey Dawson that Luke Tweezy eyed him sharply as he 
made the remark. At once Racey began to roll his head 
from side to side and rock his body to and fro, and laugh 
crazily. 

“The Bub-bub-bar S is the bub-best ranch in the worl’.” 
Again Racey took up the thread of his discourse. “ I tell you 
that outfit is great friends o’ mine. Juh-juh-just tut-to 
shuh-show yuh, Lul-luke. 01’ Man Sush-Saltoun let three 
punchers go lul-last week an’ then turned round an’ gives us 
both jobs. That’s huh-how we stand with 01’ Man Sush- 
Saltoun.” 

“That’s fine,” complimented Luke Tweezy. 

“An’ that ain’t all,” Racey galloped on, one toe pressing 
Swing’s instep. “I’m gonna tell him. Swing. He ain’t no 
friend o’ Jack Harpe’s. If I tell you you won’t tell nobody, 
Lul-Luke, wuh-will yuh?” 

Luke was understood to state that no clam could be 
tighter-mouthed. 

“I knowed you wouldn’t tell, Lul-luke,” Racey declared, 
solemnly, reaching across the table and affectionately pawing 
the Tweezy sleeve. “I mum-maybe dud-drunk, but I know 
a friend when I see him. Yuh bub-bet I do. Lul-lookit, 

Luke, lean over ” Here Racey pressed heavily on Swing’s 

instep. Then, when Luke leaned forward, Racey did the 
same and possessed himself of the money-lender’s ear by the 
simple method of gripping it tightly between fingers and 
thumb. “Lul-luke,” resumed Racey, “Jack Harpe’s offered 


THROWING SAND 87 

us a job, too, an’ we’re gonna take him up instead of the Bar 
S. Huh-how’s that?” 

Racey released the Tweezy ear, leaned back in his chair, 
and breathed triumphantly through his nose. 

Luke Tweezy likewise leaned back as far as his chair would 
permit, and fingered tenderly a tingling ear. “Whatcha 
gonna take Harpe’s job for? ” he asked, puzzled. “ I thought 
you liked the Bar S such a lot.” 

“We do,” chirped Racey, laying a long finger beside his 
nose and pressing again the Tunstall instep. “That’s why 
we’re gonna ride for Jack Harpe.” Grinning at the mystifi- 
cation of Luke Tweezy, he leaned forward and whispered, 
“We got a idea we can help the Bar S most by bein’ where we 
can watch Jack — and his outfit.” 

Luke Tweezy sat up very suddenly. Swing clapped a 
hand over Racey’s mouth and shoved him backward. 

“Shut up!” commanded Swing. “He dunno what he’s 
talkin’ about, the poor drunk.” 

Thus did Swing Tunstall come up to the scratch right 
nobly. Racey could have hugged him. Instead he bit 
him. This in order that Swing should pull his hand away in 
a natural manner. Having achieved his purpose, Racey 
smiled sottishly at Luke Tweezy. 

“But what’s Jack Harpe done?” Luke Tweezy inquired 
swiftly. 

“It ain’t what he’s done,” Racey replied. “It’s what he’s 
gug-gonna do. He’s out to cuc-colddeck the Bub-bar S, an’ 
they nun-know it.” 

Whereupon Swing began to shake him severely. “Stop 
yore ravin!” he commanded, and contrived to bang Racey’s 
head against the wall with a bump that went a long way 
toward curing the pain of Racey’s bite. 

Racey, with real tears in his eyes, looked up at Swing and 
guggled, “ I’m sho shleepy ! ” Then he laid his head upon his 
arms and slept. Luke Tweezy did not attempt to awaken 


88 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


him. Swing Tunstall advised against it. Luke Tweezy and 
he had a parting drink together. Then the money-lender 
took what was left of the second bottle of whiskey — the first 
was but a memory — ^to the bar and endeavoured to chivvy 
a rebate out of the bartender. But such a procedure was 
decidedly not the Happy Heart’s method of doing business. 
Luke Tweezy, much to his disgust, for he never drank except 
in the way of trade, was forced to carry his bottle with him 
when he went. 

Swing, sapient young person, walked casually to the win- 
dow and watched Luke Tweezy cross the street to Calloway’s 
store. Then he returned to Racey’s table. Racey turned 
his tousled head sidewise and whispered from a corner of his 
mouth, “Help me out to Tom Kane’s stable. He’s out o’ 
town, and there won’t anybody bother us.” 

“C’mon, Racey, come alive,” urged Swing Tunstall, mak- 
ing a great business of shaking awake his drunken friend. 
“ You don’t wanna stay here no longer. I know a fine place 
where you can sleep it off.” 

Ten minutes later Racey and Swing were sitting comfort- 
ably on a pile of hay in Tom Kane’s new stable. Racey 
pulled off his boots, flopped down on the hay, and clasped his 
hands behind his head. He wiggled his toes luxuriously and 
laughed. 

“Gawd,” said he. “ Think o’ that old skinflint buying 
nearly two bottles of whiskey! Bet that’ll lay heavy on his 
mind for as much as a month. What you lookin’ at me like 
that for?” 

“Yeah, I’d ask if I was you. I shore would. What was 
yore bright idea of tellin’ Luke Tweezy we were gonna ride 
for Jack Harpe so’s to watch him? ” 

“So he’d know it.” 

“So he’d know it! So he’d know it! The man sits there 
and says ^so he'd know if! And you call me a thickskull! 
Which yore head has got mine snowed under thataway. 


THROWING SAND 89 

Can’t you see, you droolin’ fool, that now they’ll know as 
much as we do?” 

“No, oh, no,” Racey denied with a superior smile. “Not 
never a-tall. I ain’t saying they mightn’t know as much 
as you do by yoreself. But not while you got the benefit 
of my brains they won’t know as much as we do. ’Tain’t 
possibil.” 

“And what did you bite me for?” pursued Swing, dis- 
regarding the slur. “Hell’s bells, if you’d bit Luke I wouldn’t 
have a word to say, but why pick on me?” 

“ Well, you bumped my head so hard I saw sparks, so we’re 
even. Say, stop squallin’ about yore hand! I didn’t bite 
you half as hard as I might have. Not half. You can still 
use the hand all right, can’t you? Yeah. Well, then, you 
ain’t got anything to cry about, not a thing.” 

“Talk sense, will you? You got us into a fine mess, you 
have. A fi-ine mess.” 

“ Guess I fooled him, all right,” Racey said with irritating 
complacency. 

“What was you trying to do, anyway?” Swing snarled, 
glaring at his friend. “What was the notion of tearin’ off all 
them confidences about bein’ busted and yore dear friends at 
the Bar S and how you and me was gonna play detective? 
And to think Providence lets a what-you-may-call-it like you 
go on living! It ain’t reasonable.” 

“That business of telling Luke we was busted,” grinned 
Racey, “and asking him for a loan was just so I could work 
up roundabout and natural like to how the Bar S bunch was 
my personal friends and how we were gonna ride for Jack 
Harpe and watch him on their account. I wanted him to 
know those things, and I couldn’t slam out and tell him dry 
so, could I? It wouldn’t sound natural. It would make him 
think the wrong way, you bet. Luke Tweezy ain’t a plumb 
fool, for aU he made the mistake of denying he knowed Jack 
Harpe. That was a bad one.” 


90 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Yeah, but ” 

“Lookit, Swing, we know that when Lanpher spoke of a 
front yard there in the hotel corral he meant the Bar S range. 
Aw right. While we’re shore Jack Harpe wants to hire us 
to do his dirty work — which means being rubbed out by our 
own friends likely — would he let us ride for him if he thought 
the Bar S was paying us to watch him?” 

“Not if he knowed what he was doing,” admitted Swing. 

“That’s why I got so greasy and confidential with Mister 
Luke Tweezy. So Jack Harpe will know.” 

“And Luke will tell him?” 

“Will Luke tell him? Luke will run to him a-pantin’. 
I’ll gamble Jack Harpe knows the awful worst already. So 
we’ll be safe enough to go to Jack to-morrow morning bright 
and early and tell him we’ve decided to give him the benefit 
of our services.” 

“But I thought we figured not to ride for him,” said the 
now thoroughly bewildered Swing. 

“Of course we ain’t. In words of one syllable. Swing, I 
want to find out if it is the Bar S Jack Harpe’s going againsts 
Well, then, we knowing what we know, and Jack Harpe know- 
ing what we know he knows, if he turns us down to-morrow 
after offering us the job yesterday, it’ll not only give us the 
absolute proof we want, but it’ll make him turn his wolf loose 
P D Q. And that last will be good medicine, because if I’m 
any judge he ain’t ready to start anything yet awhile, and I 
notice when a gent ain’t ready and has to jump anyhow he’s 
a heap likely to fall down and smear himself all over the 
landscape.” 

“The man’s right,” said Swing. “But it’s the oddest 
number alia same I ever did see. All kinds of clues to a 
crime, and no crime yet.” 

“It’ll come,” said Racey Dawson, grimly. “Jack Harpe 
is one bad actor.” 

“What you got against him — I mean, anything particular 


THROWING SAND 


91 


besides yore natural dislike?” Swing Tunstall at times was 
blessed with flashes of penetrating shrewdness. 

“ I ain’t got any use for him, thassall.” Much emphasis on 
the part of Racey Dawson. 

Swing nodded. “See him at Moccasin Spring?” was his 
drawled question. 

“I didn’t say so.” Stiffly. 

“You didn’t have to. And you don’t — not now. I see it 
all. And you yawpin’ out real loud how interested you are 
in seeing how the Bar S gets a square deal, and letting out 
only a small peep about old Dale, and thinking yo’re foolin’ 
Swing to a fare-you-well. Oh, yeah. It’s the Dale’s li’l 
ranch that’s been worrying you alia time. I know. Racey’s 
actually got a girl at last. I kind of suspicioned it, but I 
didn’t think it was so heap big serious. Don’t you fret, 

Racey, old-timer. I’ll keep yore secret. Till death does 

Ouch ! Leggo me, you poor hickory ! Yo’re supposed to be 
sleeping off a drunk, remember! G’wan now! Lie down, 
Pido! Charge, you bad dog!” 

“But lookit,” resumed Swing Tunstall, when the dust of 
conflict was beginning to settle and he was poking about in 
the hay in search of three shirt-buttons and his pocket knife, 
“lookit, Racey, you didn’t say anything to Luke about yore 
being friendly with this Dale party. Guess you forgot that, 
huh?” 

“Guess I didn’t forget it,” returned Racey Dawson, 
placidly. “It ain’t good euchre to lead all yore trumps 
before you have to. I’m saving that about Dale to tell to 
Jack Harpe after he turns us down. I’m a heap anxious to 
see what he says then.” 

“Maybe he won’t say anything.” 

“Maybe he won’t turn us down. But will you bet he 
won’t? Give you odds. Any money up to a hundred.” 

“I will not,” said Swing Tunstall, shaking a decided head. 
“Yo’re too lucky. Oh, lookit, lookit!” 


CHAPTER X 


THE BACK PORCH 

R ACEY’S gaze casually and uninterestedly followed 
Swing’s pointing finger. Immediately his eye bright- , 
ened and he sat up with a jerk. | 

“ I’ll shove the door a li’l farther open,” said Swing, making i 
as if to rise. 

“Sit still,” hissed Racey, pulling down his friend with one | 
hand and endeavouring to smooth his own hair with the 
other. “Yo’re all right, and the door’s all right. I’m going ; 
over there in a minute and if yo’re good I’ll take you with 
me.” i 

“Over there” was the back porch of the Blue Pigeon Store. ; 
Swing’s exclamations and laudable desire to see better were | 
called forth by the sudden appearance on the back porch of | 
two girls. One was Miss Blythe. The other was Miss Molly I 
Dale. 

There were two barrel chairs on the porch. Miss Blythe 
picked up a piece of embroidery on a frame from the seat of 
one of the chairs and sat down. Molly Dale seated herself 
in the other chair, crossed her knees, and swung a slim, booted 
leg. From the breast pocket of her boy’s gray flannel shirt 
she produced a long, narrow strip of white to which appeared 
to be fastened a small dark object. She held the strip of 
white in her left hand. Her right hand held the dark object 
and with it began to make a succession of quick, wavy, hooky 
dabs at one end of the strip of white. 

“First time I ever seen anybody trying to knit without 
needles,” said the perplexed Swing. 


THE BACK PORCH 


93 


“That ain’t knitting,” said the superior Racey. “That’s 
tatting.” 

“Tatting.?” 

“Tatting.” 

“What’s it for?” 

“Lingery.” Racey pronounced the word to rhyme with 
“clingery.” 

“Lingery?” 

“Lingery.” 

“What’s lingery?” 

“Lingery is clo’es.” 

“Clo’es, huh. Helluva funny name for clo’es. Why don’t 
you say clo’es then instead of this here now lingery?” 

“Because lingery is a certain hind of clo’es, you ignorant 
Jack. Petticoats, and the like o’ that. Don’t you know 
nothin’?” 

“I know yo’re lying, that’s what I know. Yo’re bluffing, 
you hear me whistlin’. You dunno no more about it than I 
do. You can’t tell me petticoats is made out of a strip of 
white stuff less’n a half-inch wide. I’ve seen too many 
washin’s hangin’ on the lines, I have. Yeah. And done too 
many. When I was a young one my ma would tie an apron 
round my neck, slap me down beside a tubful of clo’es, and 
tell me to fly to it. Petticoats ! Petticoats, feller, is made of 
yards ancl yards and yards like a balloon.” 

“Who said they wasn’t, you witless Jake? They don’t 
make petticoats of this tatting stuff. They use it for trim- 
ming like.” 

“Trimming on the petticoats?” 

And the lingery.” 

“But you just now said petticoats and lingery was the 
same thing.” 

“Oh, my Gawd! They are! They are the same thing. 
Don’t y’ understand? Petticoats is always lingery, but 
lingery ain’t always petticoats. See?” 


94 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


‘T don’t. I don’t see a-tall. I think yo’re goin’ crazy. 
That’s what I think. Nemmine. Nemmine. If you say 
lingery at me again I won’t let you introduce me to yore 
girl.” 

“She ain’t my girl,” denied Racey, reddening. 

“But you’d like her to be, huh? Shore. What does she 
think about it? Which one of ’em is she?” 

“ I didn’t say neither of ’em was. You always did take too 
much for granted. Swing.” 

“I ain’t taking too much for granted with you blushing 
thataway. Which one? Tell a feller. C’mon, stingy.” 

“Shucks,” said Racey, “I should think you could tell. 
The best-looking one, of course.” 

“But they’s two of ’em, feller, and they both look mighty 
fine to me. Take that one with the white shirt and the slick 
brown hair. She’s as pretty as a li’l red wagon. A reg’lar 
doll baby, you bet you.” 

“Doll baby! Ain’t you got any eyes? That brown- 
haired girl — and I want to say right here I never did like 
brown hair — is Joy Blythe, Bill Derr’s girl. Of course. Bill’s 
a good feller and all that, and if he likes that style of beauty 
it ain’t anything against him. But that other girl now. 
Swing, you purblind bat, when it comes to looks, she 
lays all over Joy Blythe like four aces over a bobtailed 
flush.” 

“She does, huh? You got it bad. Here’s hoping it ain’t 
catchin’. I’ve liked girls now and then my own self, but I 
never like one so hard I couldn’t see nothing good in another 
one. Now, humanly speaking, either of them two on the 
porch would suit me.” 

“And neither of ’em ain’t gonna suit you, and you can 
gamble on that. Swing Tunstall.” 

“Oh, ain’t they? We’ll see about that. You act like I 
never seen a girl before. Lemme tell you I know how to act 
all right in company. I ain’t any hilltop Reuben.” 


THE BACK PORCH 


95 


“If you ain’t, then pin up yore shirt where I tore the 
buttons off. You look like the wrath o’ Gawd.” 

“You ain’t something to write home about yore own self. 
I can button up my vest and look respectable, but they’s hay- 
seeds and shuttlin’s all over you, and besides I got a necktie, 
and yore handkerchief is so sloshed up you can’t tie it round 
yore neck. Yo’re a fine-lookin’ specimen to go a-visitin’. A 
fi-ine-lookin’ specimen. And anyway yo’re drunk. You 
can’t go.” 

“Hell I can’t,” snapped Racey, brushing industriously. 
“They never seen me.” 

“But Luke Tweezy did,” chuckled Swing. 

“What’s Luke got to do with it?” Racey inquired without 
looking up. 

“If you’d slant yore eyes out through the door you’d see 
what Luke Tweezy’s gotta do with it.” 

Racey Dawson looked up and immediately sat down on 
the hay and spoke in a low tone. 

Swing nodded with delight. “You’ll cuss worse’n that 
when I go over and make Luke introduce me,” he said. 
“He’s been out there on the porch with ’em the last five 
minutes, and you was so busy argufyin’ with me you never 
looked up to see him. And you talk of going over and doing 
the polite. Yah, you make me laugh. This is shore one on 
you, Racey. Don’t you wish now you hadn’t made out to 
be so drunk? Lookit, Luke. He’s a-offerin’ ’em something 
in a paper poke. They’re a-eatin’ it. He musta bought 
some candy. I’ll bet they’s all of a dime’s worth in that bag. 
The spendthrift. How he must like them girls. It’s yore 
girl he’s shining up to special, Racey. Ain’t he the lady- 
killer? Look out, Racey. You won’t have a chance along- 
side of Luke Tweezy.” 

“Swing,” said Racey, in a voice ominously calm and level, 
“if you don’t shut yore trap I’ll shore wrastle you down and 
tromp on yore stummick.” 


06 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


So saying he reached for Swing Tunstall. But the latter, 
watchful person that he was, eluded the clutching hands and 
hurried through the doorway. 

Racey, seething with rage, could only sit and hug his knees 
while Swing went up on the porch and was introduced to the 
two girls. It was some balm to his tortured soul to see how 
ill Luke Tweezy took Swing’s advent. Did Luke really like 
Molly Dale.^ The old goat! Why, the man was old enough 
to be her father. 

And did she like him.^ Lordy man alive, how could she? 
But Luke Tweezy had money. Girls liked money, Racey 
knew that. He had known a girl to marry a more undesir- 
able human being than Luke Tweezy simply because the man 
was rich. Personally, he, Racey Dawson, were he a girl, 
would prefer the well-known honest heart to all the wealth in 
the territory. But girls were queer, and sometimes did queer 
things. Molly, was she queer? He didn’t know. She 
looked sensible, yet why was she so infernally polite to Luke 
Tweezy? She didn’t have to smile at him when he spoke to 
her. It wasn’t necessary. Racey’s spirit groaned within 
him. Finally, the spectacle of the chattering group on the 
back porch of the Blue Pigeon proved more than Racey could 
stand. He retreated into a dark corner of the barn and lay 
down on the hay. But he did not go to sleep. Far from it. 
Later he removed his boots, stuffed them full of hay, and 
hunkered down behind a dismounted wagon-seat over 
which a wagon-cover had been flung. With a short length 
of rope and several handfuls of hay he propped the boots 
in such a position that they stuck out beyond the wagon- 
box ten or twelve inches and gave every evidence of human 
occupation. 

Boosting up with a bushel basket the stiff canvas at the end 
opposite the boots he made the wagon-cover stretch long 
enough and high enough to conceal the important fact that 
there were no legs or body attached to the boots. 


THE BACK PORCH 


97 


Which being done Racey took up a strategic position be- 
hind an upended crate near the doorway. 

He proceeded to wait. He waited quite a while. The 
afternoon drained away. The sun set. In the dusk of the 
evening Racey heard footsteps. Swing Tunstall. He’d 
know his step anywhere. The individual making the foot- 
steps came to the doorway of the barn, halted an instant, 
then walked in. Almost at once he stumbled over the boots. 
Then Racey sprang upon his back with a joyous shout and 
slammed him headforemost over the wagon-seat into the pile 
of hay. 

The man swore — and the voice was not that of Swing 
Tunstall. On the heels of this unwelcome discovery Racey 
made another. The man had dragged out a knife from 
under his armpit, and was squirmingly endeavouring to 
make play with it. Racey’s intended practical joke on 
Swing Tunstall was in a fair way to become a tragedy on 
himself. 

There was no time to make explanations, even had Racey 
been so inclined. The man was strong and the knife was 
long — and presumably sharp. Racey, pinioning his oppo- 
nent’s knife arm with one hand and his teeth, flashed out his 
gun and smartly clipped the man over the head with the 
barrel. 

Instantly, so far as an active participation in the affair of 
the moment, the man ceased to function. He lay limp as a 
sodden moccasin, and breathed stertorously. Racey knelt at 
his side and laid his hand on the top of the man’s head. The 
palm came away warmly wet. Racey replaced his gun in its 
holster and pulled the senseless one out on the barn floor 
near the doorway where he could see him better. 

The man was Luke Tweezy. 

Racey sat down and began to pull on his boots. There 
was nothing to be gained by remaining in the barn. Tweezy 
was not badly hurt. The blow on the head had resulted, so 


98 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


far as Racey could discover (later he was to learn that his 
diagnosis had been correct), in a mere scalp wound. 

Racey, when his boots were on, picked up his hat. At 
least he thought it was his hat. When he put it on, however, 
it proved a poor fit. He had taken Tweezy’s hat by mistake. 
He dropped it on the floor and turned to pick up his own 
where it lay behind the wagon-seat. 

But, as we wheeled, a flicker of white showed inside the 
crown of Tweezy’s hat where it lay on the floor. Racey 
swung back, stooped down, and turned out the leather sweat- 
band of Tweezy’s hat, at the edge of which had been revealed 
the bit of white. 

The latter proved to be one corner of a folded letter. With- 
out the least compunction Racey tucked this letter into the 
breast pocket of his flannel shirt. Then he set about search- 
ing Tweezy’s clothing with thoroughness. But other than 
the odds and odds usually to be found in a man’s pockets 
there was nothing to interest the searcher. 

Racey carefully turned back the sweatband of the hat, 
placed the headpiece on top of the wagon-seat, and departed. 
He went as far as the Happy Heart corral. Behind the 
corral he sat down on his heels, and took out the letter he had 
purloined from Luke Tweezy. He opened the envelope and 
read the finger-marked enclosure by the light of matches 
shielded behind his hat. The letter ran: 

Dear Friend Luke: 

I don’t think much of your plan. Too dangerous. The Land 
Office is getting stricter every day. This thing must be absolutely 
legal in every way. You can’t bull ahead and trust to luck there 
aren’t any holes. There mustn’t be any holes, not a damn hole. 
Try my plan, the one I discussed so thoroughly with you last week. 
It will take longer, perhaps, but it is absolutely safe. You must 
learn to be more careful with the law from now on, Luke. I know 
what I’m talking about. 

I tell you plainly if you don’t accept my scheme and work to it 


THE BACK PORCH 


99 


religiously I’m out of the deal absolutely. I’m not going to risk my 
liberty because of other people’s foolhardiness. 

Show this letter to Jack Harpe, and let me know your decision. 

, Another thing, impress upon Jack the necessity of you two 
keeping publicly apart until after the deal is sprung. 'WTien you 
talk to him go off somewheres where no one will see you. I heard he 
spoke to you on the street. Lampher told me. This must not 
happen again while we are partners. Don’t tell Doc Coflfin’s outfit 
more than they need to know. 

Yours truly, 
Jacob Pooley. 

Racey blew out the fourth match and folded the letter with 
care and replaced it in the envelope. He sat back on his 
heels and looked up into the darkening sky. Jacob Pooley. 
Well, well, well. If Fat Jakey Pooley, the register of the 
district, was mixed up in the business, the opposition would 
have its work cut out in advance. Yes, indeedy. For no man 
could walk more convincingly the tight rope of the law than 
Fat Jakey. Racey Dawson did not know Fat Jakey, except 
by sight, but he had heard most of the tales told of the gentle- 
man. And they were tales. Many of them were accepted by 
the countryside as gospel truth. Perhaps half of them were 
true. A good-natured, cunning, dishonest, and indefatigable 
featherer of a lucrative political nest — that was Fat Jakey. 

Racey Dawson sat and thought hard through two ciga- 
rettes. Then he thumbed out the butt, got to his feet, and 
started to return to the hotel. For it had suddenly come 
upon him that he was hungry. 

But halfway round the corral an idea impinged upon his 
consciousness with the force of a bullet. “Gawdamighty,” 
he muttered, “I am a Jack!” 

He turned and retraced his steps to the corner of the 
corral. Here he stopped and removed his spurs. He 
stuffed a spur into each hip pocket, and moved cautiously and 
on tiptoe toward Tom Kane’s barn. 


100 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


It was almost full night by now. But in the west still 
glowed the faintly red streak of the dying embers of the 
day. Racey suddenly bethought him that the red streak was 
at his back, therefore he dropped on all fours and proceeded 
catwise. 

He was too late. Before he reached the back of the barn 
he heard the feet of two people crunching the hard ground in 
front of it. The sound of the footsteps died out on the 
grass between the barn and the houses fronting on Main 
Street. 

Racey, hurrying after and still on all fours, suddenly saw 
the dark shape of a tall man loom in front of him. He halted 
perforce. His own special brand of bull luck was with him. 
The dark shape, walking almost without a sound, shaved his 
body so closely as it passed that he felt the stir of the air 
against his face. 

When the men had gone on a few yards Racey looked over 
his shoulder. Silhouetted against the streak of dying red 
was the upper half of Jack Harpe’s torso. There was no 
mistaking the set of that head and those shoulders. Both 
it and them were unmistakable. Jack Harpe. Racey 
swore behind his teeth. If only he could have reached the 
barn in time to hear what the two men had said to each 
other. 

After a decent interval Racey went on. The Happy Heart 
was the nearest saloon. He felt reasonably certain that 
Luke Tweezy would go there to have his cut head dressed. 
He had. Racey, his back against the bar, looked on with 
interest at the bandaging of Luke Tweezy by the proprietor. 

“Yep,” said Luke, sitting sidewise in the chair, “stubbed 
my toe against a cordwood stick in front of Tom Kane’s barn 
and hit my head on a rock. Knocked me silly.” 

“Sh’d think it might,” grunted thejproprietor, attending to 
his job with difficulty because Luke would squirm. “Hold 
still, will you, Luke.^^” 


THE BACK PORCH 101 

“Yo’re taking twice as many stitches as necessary,” 
grumbled Luke. 

“I ain’t,” denied the proprietor. “And I got two more to 
take. HOLD still!” 

“Don’t need to deafen me!” squalled Luke, indignantly. 

“Shut up!” ordered the proprietor, who, for that he did 
not owe any money to Luke, was not prepared to pay much 
attention to his fussing. “If you think I’m enjoying this, 
you got another guess coming. And if you don’t like the 
way I’m doing it, you can do it yoreself.” 

Luke stood up at last, a white bandage encircling his head, 
said that he was much obliged, and would like to borrow a 
lantern for a few moments. 

“Aw, you don’t need any lantern,” objected the proprie- 
tor. “I forgot to fill mine to-day, anyway. Can’t you 
find yore way to the hotel in the dark.^^ That crack on the 
topknot didn’t blind you, did it.?” 

“I lost something,” explained Luke Tweezy. “When I 
fell down most all my money slipped out of my pocket.” 

“I’ll get you a lantern then,” grumbled the proprietor. 

Ten minutes later Luke Tweezy, frantically quartering the 
floor of Tom Kane’s barn, heard a slight sound and looked 
up to see Racey Dawson and Swing Tunstall standing in the 
doorway. 

“I didn’t know you fell down inside the barn,” Racey ob- 
served. 

“There’s lots you dunno,” said Luke, ungraciously. 

“So there is,” assented Racey. “But don’t rub it in, 
Luke. Rubbing it in hurts my feelings. And my feelings 
are tender to-day — most awful tender, Luke. Don’t you 
go for to lacerate ’em. I ain’t owing you a dime, you 
know.” 

To this Luke Tweezy made no comment. But he resumed 
his squattering about the floor and his poking and delving 
in the piles of hay. He raised a dust that flew up in clouds. 


102 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


He coughed and snorted and snuffed. Racey and Swing 
Tunstall laughed. 

“Makes you think of a hay-tedder, don’t he?” grinned 
Racey. “How much did you lose, Luke — ^two bits?” 

At this Luke looked up sharply. “Seems to me you got 
over yore drunk pretty quick,” said he. 

“Oh, my liquor never stays by me a great while,” Racey 
told him easily. “That’s the beauty of being young. When 
you get old and toothless an’ deecrepit like some people, not 
to mention no names of course, why then she’s a cat with 
another tail entirely.” 

“ What ’ell’s goin’ on in here? ” It was Red Kane speaking. 
Red was Tom Kane’s brother. 

Racey and Swing moved apart to let him through. Red 
Kane entered, stared at the spectacle of Luke Tweezy and his 
bobbing lantern, stared and stared again. 

“What you doing, Luke?” he demanded. 

“Luke’s lost a nickel. Red.” Racey answered for the 
lawyier. “And a nickel, you know yoreself, is worth all of 
five cents.” 

“I lost some money,” grumbled Luke. 

“But you said you lost it when you tripped and fell,” said 
Racey. “And you fell outside.” 

“I lost it here,” Luke said, shortly. 

“I don’t giveadamn where you lost it or what you lost,” 
declared Red Kane. “You can’t go fiirtin’ round with any 
lantern in Tom’s barn. First thing you know you’ll set it 
afire. C’mon, Luke, pull yore freight.” 

“But lookit here,” protested Luke, “I lost something 
valuable. Red. I gotta find it.” 

“It wasn’t money then?” put in Racey. 

“Of course it was money,” averred Luke. 

“You said ‘it’ this time, Luke.” 

“It don’t matter what I said. I lost some money, and I 
want to find it.” 


THE BACK PORCH 


103 


“You can want all you like,” said Red Kane, “but not in 
this barn. C’mon back to-morrow morning, and you can 
hunt the barn to pieces, but you can’t do any more skirmish- 
ing round in here to-night. I’ll lock the barn door so’s 
nobody else will go fussbudgettin’ round in here. C’mon, 
Luke, get a move on you.” 

So Luke was driven out much against his will, and Racey 
and Swing roamed around to the dance hall. Here at a 
table in the ell where the bar stretched its length they could 
sit and talk — unheard under cover of the music. 

“But how come you had yore boots off?” Swing desired to 
know when a table, a bottle and two glasses were between 
them. “Don’t try to tell me you stuck ’em behind that 
wagon-seat on purpose to trip him. You never knowed he 
was cornin’.” 

“Well, no, I didn’t exactly,” admitted Racey, with a sly 
smile. “Those boots were laid out all special for you.” 

“For me?” 

“For you.” 

“But why for me?” Perplexedly. 

“Because, Swing, old settler, I didn’t like you this after- 
noon. The more I saw you over there on that porch the less 
I liked you. So I took off my boots and hid ’em careful like 
behind the wagon-seat so they’d stick out some, and you’d 
see ’em and think I was there asleep, and naturally you’d go 
for to wake me up and wouldn’t think of looking behind the 
crate where I was laying for you all ready to hop on yore 
neck the second you stooped over the wagon-seat and give 
you the Dutch rub for glommin* all the fun this afternoon.” 

“And what didja think I’d be doin’ alia time?” grinned 
Swing Tuns tall. 

“You wouldn’t ’a’ tried to knife me, anyway.” 

“G’on. He didn’t.” 

“Oh, didn’t he? You better believe he did. If I hadn’t 
got a holt of his wrist and whanged him over the head with 


104 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


my Colt for all I was worth he’d ’a’ had me laid out cold. 
Yep, li’l Mr. Luke Tweezy himself. The rat that don’t care 
nothing about fighting with anything but a law book.” 

“A rat will fight when it’s cornered,” said Swing. 

Racey nodded. ‘T’ve seen ’em. It’s something to know 
Luke carries a knife and where.” 

“Where?” 

“Under his left arm. Fill up, and shove the bottle over.” 

Swing filled abstractedly and slopped the table. He 
pushed the bottle toward Racey. The latter caught it just 
in time to prevent a smash on the floor. 

“Say, look what yo’re doing!” cried Racey. “Y’ almost 
wasted a whole bottle of redeye. I ain’t got money to throw 
away if you have.” 

“I was just wonderin’ what Fat Jakey’s plan is,”said Swing, 
scratching his head. 

“No use wonderin’,” Racey told him. “It’s their move.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE LOOKOUT 

T ell you, gents, somethin’s come up to change my 
plans.” It was Jack Harpe speaking. Racey and 
Swing had met him on the sidewalk in front of Lainey’s 
hotel shortly after breakfast the following morning, and 
Racey had told him of their ultimate decision. As he spoke 
Mr. Harpe braced an arm against the side of the building, 
crossed his feet, and scratched the back of his head. “I’m 
shore sorry,” he went on, “but I’d like to call off that propo- 
sition about you riding for me. Coupla men used to ride for 
me one time are coming back unexpected. You know. 
Naturally — ^you know how it is yoreseK — I’d like to have 
these fellers riding for me, so if it’s alia same to you two gents 
we’ll call it off. But I wanna be fair. You expected a job on 
my ranch. I told you you could have it. I owe you some- 
thin’. What say to a month’s wages apiece? ” 

Racey shook a slow head, and hooked his thumbs in his 
belt. “You don’t owe us a nickel,” he told Jack Harpe. 
“Take back yore gold. We’re honest workin’-girls ourselves. 
Of course we may starve, but what’s that between friends? 
In words of one syllable what do we care for poverty or 
precious stones?” 

Jack Harpe followed this flight of fancy with an uncertain 
smile. “Alla same,” he said, “I wish you’d lemme give you 
that month’s wages. I’d feel better about it. Like I was 
paying my bets sort of.” 

“’Tsall right,” nodded Racey Dawson. “We still don’t 
105 


106 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


want any money. We’re satisfied if you are. Yep, we’re a 
heap satisfied — now. But I ain’t contented — much.” 

“That’s tough,” commiserated Jack Harpe, and dropped at 
his side the arm he had braced against the wall of the hotel. 
Also he straightened his crossed leg. His air and manner, 
even to the most casual of eyes, took on a sudden brisk watch- 
fulness. “That’s tough,” repeated Jack Harpe, and added a 
headshake for good measure. 

“Ain’t it?” Racey Dawson said, brightly. “But maybe 
you can help me out. Lookit, I ain’t trying to pry, y’ under- 
stand. I’m the least prying feller in four states, but this 
here ranch of yores which ain’t got anything to do with the 
88 and won’t cut any corners off the Bar S might it by any 
chance overlap on Mr. Dale’s li’l ranch?” 

“ Overlap the Dale ranch ! What you talkin’ about? ” 

“I dunno,” Racey replied, simply. “I’m trying to find out.” 

Jack Harpe laughed his soundless laugh. “I dunno what 
it is to you,” he said, “but if my ranch don’t come near the 
Bar S how can it hit the Dale place? ” 

“Stranger things than that have happened. But still, alia 
same, I’d shore not admire to see any hardship come to old 
Chin Whisker — Dale, I mean.” 

If Racey had hoped to gain any effect by mentioning 
“Chin Whisker” he was disappointed. Jack Harpe was 
wearing his poker face at the moment. 

“I wouldn’t like that any myself,” concurred Jack Harpe. 
“Old Dale seems like a good feller, sort of shackles along a 
mite too shiftless maybe, but his daughter takes the curse off, 
don’t she? ” 

“We weren’t talking about the daughter,” Racey pointed 
out. 

Swing Tunstall immediately stepped to one side. There 
was a something in Racey ’s tone. 

But Jack Harpe did not press the point. He smiled 
widely instead. 


THE LOOKOUT 


107 


“We weren’t talking about her, for a fact,” he assented. 
“Coming right down to cases, we’d oughta be about done 
talking, oughtn’t we?” 

“Depends,” said Racey. “It all depends. I’d just like 
folks to know that I’d take it a heap personal if any tough 
luck came to old Dale and his ranch.” 

“Meanin’?” 

“What I said. No more. No less.” 

“What you said can be took more ways than one.” 

“What do you care?” flashed Racey. “What I said con- 
cerns only the gent or gents who are fixing to colddeck old 
Dale. Nobody else a-tall. So what do you care?” 

“I don’t. Not a care, not a care. Only — only one 
thing. Mister Man, if you’re aiming to drynurse old Dale 
you’re gonna have yore paws most awful full of man’s 
size work. Leastaways, that’s the way she looks to a 
man up a tree. Me, I’m a great hand for mindin’ my own 
business, but ” 

“Yo’re like Luke Tweezy thataway,” ’ cut in Racey. 
“That’s what he’s always doing.” 

“Who’s Luke Tweezy? ” 

“So you’ve learned yore lesson,” chuckled Racey. “It 
was about time. Guess you must ’a’ bothered Luke Tweezy 
some when you spoke to him that day in front of the Happy 
Heart just before you and Lanpher crawled yore cay uses and 
rode to Dale’s on Soogan Creek. . . . Don’t remember, 

huh? I do. You said, ‘See you later, Luke,’ and he didn’t 
speak back. Just kept on untying his hoss and keeping his 
head bent down like he hadn’t heard a word you said. 
’S’funny, huh?” 

“Damfunny,” assented Jack Harpe with an odd smooth- 
ness. 

“Yeah, you fellers that don’t know each other are all of 
that. Tell me something, do you meet in the cemetery by a 
dead nigger’s grave in the dark of the moon at midnight or 


108 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


what? I’m free to admit I’m puzzled. She’s all a heap too 
mysterious for me.” 

“Crazy talk,” commented Jack Harpe. “You been 
wallowing in the nosepaint and letting yore imagination run 
on the range too much.” 

“Maybe,” Racey said, equably. “Maybe. You can’t 
tell. As a young one I had a powerful imagination. I might 
have it yet.” 

Jack Harpe gazed long and silently at Racey Dawson. The 
latter returned the stare with interest. With the sixth sense 
possessed by most men who live in a country where the law 
and the sixshooter are practically synonymous terms, Racey 
was conscious that Marie, the Happy Heart Lookout, had 
suddenly drifted up to his left flank and now stood with arms 
akimbo on the inner edge of the sidewalk. Her body was 
turned partly toward him but her head was turned wholly 
away. Evidently there was something of interest farther 
up the street. 

Racey moved slightly to the left. He wished to have a 
little more light on Jack Harpe’s right side. The Harpe right 
hand — it was in the shadow. Jack Harpe pivoted to face 
Racey. The light from the hotel window fell on the right 
hand. The member was near the gun butt, but not sug- 
gestively near. 

“Listen here,” said Jack Harpe, suddenly, in a snarling 
whisper designed solely for the ears of Racey Dawson, “I 
dunno what you been a-drivin’ at, but just for yore better in- 
formation I’m telling you that I always get what I go 
after. Whether it’s land, cows, horses, or — ^women, I get 
what I want. Nothing ever has stopped me. Nothing ever 
will stop me. Don’t forget.” 

“Thanks,” smiled Racey. “I’ll try not to.” 

“And here’s somethin’ else : What I take I keep — always.’’ 

“Always is a long word.” 

“There’s a longer.” 


THE LOOKOUT 


109 


“What?” 

“Death.” 

“Meanin’?” 

“That folks who ain’t for me are against me. Looks like 
yore friend there wanted to talk to you. So long.” 

Abruptly Jack Harpe faced about and went into the hotel. 
Eacey felt a touch on his arm. He turned to find that Marie 
had almost bumped into him. Her head was still turned 
away. One of her hands was groping for his arm. Her 
fingers clutched his wrist, then slid upward to the crook of 
his elbow. 

“Le’s go across the street,” she said in a breathless voice, 
and pulled him forward. 

Her body as she pulled was pressed tightly against him. 
She seemed to hang upon him. And all to the discomfort 
and mental anguish of Racey Dawson. He was no prude. 
His moral sense had never oppressed him. But this calm 
appropriation of him was too much. But he accompanied 
her. For there was Swing Tunstall, a nothing if not inter- 
ested observer. Other folk as well were spectators. To 
shake loose Marie’s grip, to run away from her, would make 
him ridiculous. He continued to accompany the young 
woman quite as if her kidnapping of him was a matter of 
course. 

In the middle of the street they were halted by the head- 
long approach of a rapidly driven buckboard. As it swept 
past in front of them the light of the lantern clamped on the 
dashboard flashed on their faces. 

“’Lo, Mr. Dawson,” cried the driver, her fresh young 
voice lifting to be heard above the drum of the hoofs and the 
grind of the rolling wheels. And the voice was the voice of 
Miss Molly Dale. 

Racey did not reply to the greeting. He was too dumb- 
foundedly aghast at the mischance that had presented him, 
while arm in arm with a person of Marie’s stamp, to the eyes 


110 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


of one upon whom he was striving to make an impression. 
What would Molly Dale think? The worst, of course. How 
could she help it? Appearances were all against him. Then 
he recalled that she had been the sole occupant of the buck- 
board — that she had called him by name after the light had 
fallen on the face of the lookout. It was possible that she 
might not know who Marie was. Although it was no more 
than just possible, he cuddled the potentiality to him as if it 
had been a purring kitten. 

He allowed Marie to lead him across the sidewalk and into 
the pot-black shadow between Tom Kane’s house and an 
empty shack. But here in the thick darkness he paused and 
looked back to see whether Swing Tunstall were following. 
Swing was not. He was entering the hotel in company with 
Windy Taylor. 

Marie jerked at his arm. “C’mon,” she urged, impa- 
tiently. “Gonna take root, or what?” 

Willy-nilly he accompanied his captor to the extremely 
private and secluded rear of Tom Kane’s new barn. Here 
were the remains of a broken wagon, several wheels, and the 
major portion of a venerable and useless stove. Marie re- 
leased his arm and Racey sat down on the stove. But it was 
a very useless stove, and it collapsed crashingly under his 
weight (later he learned that even when it had been a working 
member of Tom Kane’s menage the stove had been held 
together mainly by trust in the Lord and a good deal of bal- 
ing wire). 

“Clumsy!” Marie hissed as he arose hurriedly. “All 
thumbs and left feet ! Why don’t you make a li’l more noise? 
I’ll bet you could if you tried.” 

“Say,” Racey snapped, temperishly, for a sharp corner of 
the stove door had totally obscured his sense of proportion, 
“say, I didn’t ask to come over here with you ! What do you 
want, anyway?” 

“Want you to shut up and pay attention to me!” she 


THE LOOKOUT 


111 


flung back. “I thought you was gonna leave town. Why 
ain’t you?” 

“Changed my mind,” was his answer. 

“Why can’t you do what you said you’d do?” She was 
quite vehement about it. 

“I got a right to change my mind, ain’t I?” 

“Go, dammit! Why can’t you go? You gave them a 
chance to even up when you ran that blazer on Doc CoflSn an’ 
Honey Hoke there in the Starlight. Let it go at that. 
Whadda you want to hang round here for? Don’t you know 
that every hour you stay here makes it more dangerous for 
you? . . . Oh, you can laugh! That’s all you do when 

a feller does her level best to see you don’t come to any harm. 
Gawd ! I could shake you for a fool ! ” 

“Was that what you pulled me alia way over here to tell 
me?” he inquired, somewhat miffed at her acerbity. 

“I pulled you across the street because if I’d left you where 
I found you you wouldn’t ’a’ lived a minute.” The star- 
light was bright enough to reveal to him the set and earnest 
tenseness of her features. 

“I wouldn’t ’a’ lived a minute, huh?” was his comment. 
“I didn’t see anybody round there fit and able to put in a 
period.” 

“It wasn’t anybody you could see. Don’t you remember 
what I said about a knife in the night, or a shot in the dark? 
Man, do you have to be killed before you’re convinced? ” 

“Well— uh— I ” 

“Whadda you guess I was standin’ alongside of you for 
while you was talkin’ to that other feller, huh? Tryin’ to 
listen to what you was sayin’? Think so, huh?” 

“You shore had yore nerve,” he said, admiringly — and 
helplessly. 

“Nerve nothin’!” she denied. “He wouldn’t shoot 
through me. I know that well enough.” 

“Why wouldn’t he? And how do you know?” 


112 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Because, and I do. That’s enough.” 

“Which particular one is he.^” 

“I ain’t sayin’.” 

“Do you like him as much as that.^^” Shrewdly. 

“Not the way you mean.” Dispassionately. 

“Then who is he?” 

“I ain’t sayin*, I tell you!” 

“You snitched on Nebraska.” Persuasively. 

“This feller’s different.” 

“How different?” 

. “None of yore business. Lookit, I’m doin’ my best for 
you, but I won’t have the luck every time that I had to- 
night — ^nor you won’t, neither. Gawd ! if I hadn’t just hap- 
pened to strike for a night off this evenin’ I dunno where 
you’d be!” 

“Say, I thought you didn’t dare let them see you have 
anythin’ to do with me?” 

“I didn’t, and I don’t. But I had to. I couldn’t set by 
an’ let you be plugged, could I? Hardly.” 

“But ” 

“ ’Tsall right, ’tsall right. Don’t you worry any about me. 
I got a ace in the hole if the weather gets wet. But I wanna 
tell you this : If yo’re bound to go on playin’ the fool, keep 
a-movin’ and walk round a lighted window like it’s a swamp.” 

She dodged past him and was gone. He made no move to 
follow. He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. 

“Helluva town this is,” he muttered. “Can’t stand still 
any more without having some sport draw a fine sight where 
you’ll feel it most.” 

After she left Racey Dawson Marie diagonalled across 
Main Street, passed between the dance hall and Dolan’s 
warehouse, and made her way to the most outlying of the 
half-dozen two-room shacks scattered at the back of the dance 
hall. She entered the shack, felt for the matches in the tin 
tobacco-box nailed against the wall, and struck one to fight 


THE LOOKOUT 


113 


the lamp. Like the provident miss she was she turned the 
wick down after lighting in order that the chimney might 
heat slowly. 

It may have been the dimness of the lighted lamp. It 
may have been that she was not as observing as usual. But 
certainly she had no inkling of another’s presence in the same 
room with her till she had slipped out of her waist. Then a 
man in the corner of the room swore harshly. 

“ ^yore soul to ! ” were his remarks in part. “ What 

did you horn in for to-night?” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE DISCOVERY 

R ACEY DAWSON did not remain long idle after Marie’s 
departure. The girl had barely entered the narrow 
passage between the warehouse and the dance hall 
before he was crossing the street at a point beyond the jail, 
where there were no shafts of light from open windows and 
doorways to betray him. 

Racey Dawson circled the sheriff’s house and tippytoed 
past the outermost of the six two-room shacks at the rear of 
the dance hall. His objective was the Starlight Saloon, his 
purpose to discover the bushwhacker who had tried to shoot 
him. 

As he passed the outermost shack a light flashed up within 
it. He saw Marie’s head and shoulder silhouetted against 
the curtain. He recognized her immediately by the heavy 
mass of her hair. No other woman in Farewell possessed 
such a mop. 

Racey resolved to speak with Marie again. His hand was 
lifted in readiness to knock when Marie’s visitor spoke. 
Racey’s hand promptly dropped at his side. He had recog- 
nized the voice. It was that of Bull, the Starlight bartender. 

The shack door was fairly well constructed. At least 
there were no cracks in it. But a log wall has oftentimes an 
open chink. This wall had one between the third and fourth 
tiers of logs not more than a yard from the door. Racey 
crouched till his eyes were on a level with the narrow crack. 

He could not see Bull. But he could see Marie. Appar- 
ently she was not according her visitor the slightest attention. 

114 


THE DISCOVERY 


115 


She daintily and unhurriedly hung her waist over the back of 
a chair. Then she turned up the lamp, removed the pins 
from her abundant hair, shook it down, and began to brush 
it calmly and carefully. 

“ you!” snarled Bull, advancing to the table where he 

was within range of Racey’s eyesight. “I spoke to you! 
What did ja do it for?” 

She raised her head and looked at him, the brush poised in 

one hand. “ you. Bull,” she drawled at him. “I’m 

tellin’ you, because I felt like it.” 

Bull shot forth a hand and grabbed her right wrist. Marie, 
as a whole, did not move. But her left hand dropped 
languidly and nestled in the overhang of her bodice. 

“Bull,” she said, softly, staring straight into the evil eyes 
glowering upon her. “Bull, bad as you are, you ain’t never 
laid a hand on me yet. You ain’t gonna begin now, are you ? ” 

Bull’s great fingers began to tighten on her wrist, slowly, 
inexorably. 

“I’m sorry. Bull,” she resumed, when he made no reply, 
“but I got a derringer pointin’ straight at yore stomach. 
Now you ain’t gonna lemme make a mess on my clean carpet, 
are you?” 

Bull released her wrist as though it burnt him. 

“You devil!” he exclaimed. “I believe you’d do it.” 

“Shore I would,” she affirmed, serenely, dragging a small 
and ugly derringer from its place of concealment and balanc- 
ing it on a pink palm. “I’ll drill you in one blessed minute 
if you don’t keep yore paws to home. They’s some things. 
Bull, you can’t do to me. An’ one of them things is hurting 
me. I don’t believe in corporal punishment. Bull.” 

“I wanna know what you horned in for,” he demanded, 
pounding the table till the lamp danced again. 

“If you only knowed what a silly fool you looked,” she 
commented, “you’d sit down and take it easy. . . . 

That’s right, tell the neighbours, do! Squawk out good and 


116 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


loud how yore bushwhackin’ li’l kilHng turned out a misdeal. 
Shore, I’d do that, if I was you. Whadda you guess they pay 
Jake Rule an’ Kansas Casey for, huh?” 

“What did you get in front of him for?” Bull persisted in a 

lower tone. “I pretty near had him, but you Gawd, I 

could wring yore neck!” 

“But you won’t,” she reminded him, sweetly. “Lookit 
here. Bull, if you hadn’t locked the door leading up the 
stairs to the Starlight’s loft, I’d ’a’ come after you there and 
done my persuadin’ of you right in the loft. As it was when 
I heard what you were up to — nemmine how I heard. I 
heard, that’s enough — I had to go out in the street and do 
what I could there. I don’t beheve the feller hked it much, 
neither.” 

“But what’s he to you? You ain’t soft on him, are you, 
account of what he done for that yellow mutt of yores?” 

“I owe him something,” she evaded. “That dog — I like 
that dog. And then that man treats me like a lady. It 
ain’t every man treats me hke a lady.” 

“I should hope not,” guffawed the amiable Bull. 

“Now that’s a right funny joke,” she assured him. “It 
almost makes me laugh. Still, alia same, I got feelin’s. I’m 
a human being. And you’ll notice molasses catches a heap 
more flies than vinegar does. I hke that Dawson man, and 
I ain’t gonna see him hurt.” 

“ Did you tell him it was me up there with a rifle? ” There 
was a hint of unease in the blustery tone. 

“I didn’t tell him nothin’,” said Marie. “I ain’t no 
snitch.” 

“Ah-h, you are soft on him,” Bull sneered in disgust. 

“What if I am?” she flared. “What business is it of 
yores?” 

“What’ll Nebraska say?” he proffered. 

“Nebraska hell!” she sneered. “Nebraska and me are 
through!” 


THE DISCOVERY 


117 


“I know you’ve split, but that ain’t saying Nebraska will 
let you go with another gent.” 

“I’ll go with anybody I please, and neither Nebraska nor 
you nore any other damn man is gonna stop me. If you 
think different, /ri/ it, just <r2/ it! Thassall I ask. Thisiov 
you and Nebraska!” With which she snapped her fingers 
under his nose once, twice, and again. 

“I wish Pap was still alive. He could always handle you. 
Remember the time you sassed him there in . . .” Here 

Marie accidentally dropped her brush into an empty pail, and 
the clatter drowned out the name of the town so far as Racey 
was concerned. But Marie caught the name, for she 
straightened with a start and stared at Bull. “Yeah,” 
continued Bull, “you remember it, huh? I guess you do. 
That was where Pap slapped yore chops and throwed you 
down the stairs. Like to broke yore neck that time. I wish 
you had.” 

“‘Pap,’” she repeated. “‘Pap,’ and that town. What 
made you think of them two names together?” 

“Because that was the town where he throwed you down 
the stairs,” Bull told her matter-of-factly. 

“It was the town where we met up with Bill Smith.” 

“What about it?” 

“Nothing — only Bill Smith is here in town.” 

“In Farewell?” 

“In Farewell.” 

“Why ain’t I seen him if he’s in Farewell?” 

“Because he’s shaved off all of that beard and part of his 
eyebrows — they used to meet plumb in the middle, re- 
member — ^till a body would hardly know him. I didn’t. I 
knowed they was somethin’ familiar about him, but I couldn’t 
tell what till you mentioned Pap and the town together. 
Then I knowed. Yeah, Bull, this gent’s the same Bill 
Smith Pap picked up on the trail. He’s a respectable 
member of society now, I guess. Calls himself Jack 


118 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

Harpe and spends most of his time runnin’ round with 
Lanpher.” 

“Then he ain’t too respectable, the lousy pup. Calls him- 
self Jack Harpe, huh? Shore, he come in the Starlight with 
Lanpher and gimme the eye without a quiver. Didn’t know 
me, he didn’t! And I ain’t done nothin’ to my looks to 
change ’em.” 

“Huh, y’ oughta seen the way he looked me up and down 
when he passed us on the Marysville trail. You’d ’a’ thought 
he just seen me. Oh, he’s got his nerve.” 

“Who is us?'* Suspiciously. 

“What it won’t do you no good to know. I guess I can go 
riding with a friend if I like. You seem to keep forgettin’ 
you ain’t got any ropes on me — ^nary a rope. Stop botherin’ 
yore fool head about me and my doings, and think of some- 
thing worth while — ^for instance. Jack Harpe.” 

“Then what?” 

“No wonder they call you Bull. That’s all you are, beef 
to the heels and no more sense than a calf. Listen, Jack 
Harpe’s respectable, ain’t he? Or he aims to be, which is the 
same thing. Anyway, he’s swelling round here like a poisoned 
pup and don’t know us a-tall. Takin’ him down a couple o’ 
pegs wouldn’t hurt him. He always was too tall. I’ll bet if 
he was come at right he’d pay cash down on the hoof for us, 
me and you both, to keep our heads shut about what we 
know.” 

“But we was in that, too.” 

“But we didn’t do what he done,” pointed out Marie. 
“And you know yoreself the company don’t drop the case like 
a ordinary sheriff does. No, I expect Jack Harpe would be 
worried some if he knowed we’d recognized him. . . . Aw, 
what are you scared of? Pap’s dead, ain’t he? How can 
Harpe hurt us? He never knowed how intimate we knowed 
Pap while he was stayin’ at our house. He just thought 
Pap was a friend. He never knowed we got our share of the 


THE DISCOVERY 


119 


money. Nawsir, he can’t hook us up with that killin’ nohow, 
but we can hook him. Brace up to him, Bull. Maybe you 
can work him for a stake. They ain’t no danger, I tell you.” 

“By Gawd, I’d like to!” declared Bull and swore a string 
of oaths. 

“ Then go ahead,” urged Marie. “ And don’t forget I want 
in on the stake.” 

“ Ah-h, I do all the work and then have to whack up with 
you, huh? I will not. What I get I keep.” 

“I remember Jack Harpe used to say that. He shore 
hated himself, the poor feller. Alla same, I guess maybe 
you’ll go even Steven with me. Bull. Who is it recognized 
him first? Who give you the idea? Who did, huh? Who 
did? Whatever you get you’ll divide with me or I’ll know 
the reason why. And if you don’t think I’m a wildcat get me 
roused, man, get me roused.” 

Bull stood back and scratched a tousled head. “I — well 

” he began and paused. Obviously the prospect did not 

wholly please him. 

“Go to Jack Harpe easy like,” suggested the girl. “Don’t 
tell him too much, just enough to show yo’re meanin’ what 
you say. I’d do it myself only he’d laugh at me. He’s one 
of those gents a woman has to shoot before they’ll believe 
she’s in earnest. He ain’t the only one, they’s another just 
like him in town. . . . Nemmine who. You go to Jack 

Harpe. He’ll listen to a man. G’on! They’s money in it, if 
you work it right. You want money, don’t you? You need 
three hundred to pay what you owe Piggy Wadsworth, don’t 
you? Yah, you big hunk, you been runnin’ to me for money 
long enough! Here’s a chance to make some of yore own. 
Ely at it.” 

When Bull had picked up a rifle standing in a corner and 
departed, slamming the door behind him, Marie sat down 
on the lid of a mottled zinc trunk and wiped her hot face on a 
petticoat that hung on the wall conveniently to hand. 


120 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Warm work, warm work!” she muttered, wearily. “I 
dunno when I seen Bull so mad. I shore thought one time 
there I wasn’t gonna get rid of him without a fight.” She 
rolled her well-shaped ankles and fiipped the gilt tassels on 
her shoe tops to and fro (yes, indeed, some women wore 
tasseled footgear in those days). “Men,” she went on, star- 
ing down at the shiny tassels, “men are shore hell.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A BOLD BAD MAN 

B ull had halted a moment outside the door of the 
shack to roll a cigarette. Before he pulled out his 
tobacco bag he leaned the rifle against the doorjamb. 
His eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, did not see the 
crouching Racey Dawson within arm’s-length. 

Both of Bull’s hands were cupped round the lighted match. 
He lifted it to the end of the cigarette. He sucked in his 
breath and — a voice whispered: “Drop that match an’ grab 
yore ears.” 

Bull did not hesitate to obey, for the broad, cold blade of 
a bowie rested lightly against the back of his neck. Bull 
swayed a little where he stood. 

“I got yore rifle,” resumed the whisperer. “Walk away 
now. Yo’re headin’ about right. Don’t make too much 
noise.” 

Bull did not make too much noise. In fact, he made 
hardly any. It is safe to say that he never progressed more 
quietly in his life. The man with the bowie steered him to a 
safe haven behind a fat white boulder half buried in sumac. 

“Si’down,” requested the captor in a conversational tone. 
“We can be right comfortable here.” 

“Dawson!” breathed the captive. 

“Took you a long time to find it out,” said Racey Dawson. 
“Si’down, I said,” he added, sharply. 

Bull obeyed, his back against the rock, and was careful not 
to lower his hands. Racey hunkered down and sat on a spur- 
less heel. The rifle was under his knee. He had exchanged 

121 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


122 

the bowie for a sixshooter. The firearm was trained in the 
general direction of Bull’s stomach. 

Racey smiled widely. He felt very chipper and pleased 
with himself. He was managing the affair well, he thought. 

“You show up right plain against that white rock,” he re- 
marked. “If yo’re figuring to gamble with me, think of 
that.” 

“Whatcha want?” demanded Bull, sullenly. 

“Lots of things,” replied Racey, shifting a foot an inch 
to the left. “ I’m the most wantin’ feller you ever saw. Just 
now this minute I want you to tell me where it was you met 
up with Bill Smith and what it was he did so bad that you 
and Marie think you’ve got a hold on him.” 

“You was listenin’ quite a while,” muttered BuU. 

“Quite a while,” admitted Racey Dawson. “Quite a 
while.” 

“But you didn’t listen quite hard enough,” suggested Bull. 

“No,” assented Racey, “I didn’t. I’m expecting you to 
sort of fill in the gaps.” 

Bull shook a decided head. “No,” he denied. “No, you 
got another guess cornin’. I won’t do nothin’ like that a- 
tall.” 

“And why not?” 

“Because I won’t.” 

“‘Won’t’ got his neck broke one day just because he 
wouldn’t.” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” sneered Bull. 

“You must forget I heard all about how you tried to bush- 
whack me from the second floor of the Starlight,” Racey put 
in, gently. 

“Aw, that’s a damn lie,” bluffed Bull. “A damn lie. All 
a mistake. You heard wrong.” 

Racey shook a disapproving head. “When it’s after the 
draw,” he said, “and you ain’t got a thing in yore hand, and 
the other gents have everything and know they have every- 


A BOLD BAD MAN 


123 

thing to yore nothing, she’s poor poker to make a bluff. 
Whatsa use, sport, whatsa use?” 

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about,” persisted Bull. 

“Aw right, let it go at that. Who put you up to bush- 
whack me?” 

“Nun-nobody,” hesitated Bull. 

“Yore own idea, huh?” 

Bull spat disgustedly on the grass. He had seen the trap 
after it had been sprung. 

“You shore can’t play poker,” smiled Racey, his eyes 

shining with pleasure under the wide brim of his hat. “ I 

The starlight’s pretty bright remember.” 

Bull’s sudden movement came to naught. He settled 
back, his eyes furtively busy. 

“Still, alia same,” pursued Racey, “I wonder was it all yore 
own idea.” 

“Whatell didja kick me for?” snarled Bull. 

“‘Kick you for?’” Racey repeated, stupidly. 

“Yeah, kick me,” said Bull. “No damn man can kick me 
and me not take notice.” 

“Dunno as I blame you. Dunno as I do. If any damn 
man kicks you. Bull, you got a right to drill him every time. 
And you think I kicked you?” 

“I know you did.” 

“You know I did, huh? Did you see me do it?” 

“You kicked me after you’d knocked me silly with that 
bottle. Kicked me when I was down and couldn’t help 
myself.” 

“So I did all that to you after you were down, huh? Who 
told you?” 

“Nemmine who told me. You done it, that’s enough.” 

“No, it ain’t enough. It ain’t enough by a long mile. I 
want to know who told you?” 

“I ain’t sayin’.” Sullenly. 

“ Come to think, she’s hardly necessary. Doc Coffin and 


124 


THE HEAKT OF THE RANGE 


Honey Hoke were the only two gents in the Starlight at the 
time. It was either one or both of ’em told you. Maybe 
I’ll get a chance to ask ’em about it later. Now I dunnol 
whether you’ll believe it or not but to tell the truth and bej 
plain with you, Bull, I didn’t kick you.” I 

‘T don’t believe you.” But Bull’s tone was not confident, j 

‘T wouldn’t expect you to — under the circumstances. I 
What I’m tellin’ you is true alia same. Lookit, you fool, is 
it likely after takin’ the trouble to knock you down, I’d kick 
you besides Do I look like a sport who’d do a thing like 
that? Think it over.” | 

Bull was silent. But Racey believed that he had planted 
the seed of doubt in his mind. 

“And another thing,” resumed Racey, “do I look like a 
sport who’d let another jigger lay for him promiscuous? 
You go slow, Bull. I’m good-natured, a heap good-natured. 
But don’t lemme catch you bushwhacking me again.” 

“I won’t,” said Bull with a flash of humour. 

“Be dead shore of it,” cautioned Racey. “If I ever get 
to even thinking that yo’re laying for me. Bull, I’m liable to 
come a-askin’ questions you can’t answer. Yo’re a bright 
young man. Bull, but you want to be careful how you strain 
yore intellect. You might need it some day. And if you 
want to keep on being mother’s li’l helper, be good, thassall, 
be good.” 

“Yo’re worse’n a helldodger,” affirmed Bull. 

“You got me sized up right. I’m worse than a helldodger, 
a whole lot worse.” The words were playful, but the tone 
was sardonic. 

Bull grunted. 

“You tell me, will you, just where it was you met this Bill 
Smith- Jack Harpe feller, and what it was he did? There’s a 
company in it, too. What company is it — the Northern 
Pacific?” 

“ Ah-h, you got a gall, you have,” sneered Bull, savagely. 


A BOLD BAD MAN 125 

“Think you’ll make something out of Harpe yore own self, 
huh?” 

“That is my idea,” admitted Racey. 

“Well, you got a gall, thassall I gotta say.” 

“You forget you’ve got a gall, too, when you try to bush- 
whack me,” Racey reminded him. “I’m trying to play even 
for that.” 

“Try away.” 

“You seem to make it hard for me kind of,” grinned Racey. 

“Of course I’d enjoy makin’ it easy for you all I could,” 
observed Bull with sarcasm. 

“I dunno as I’d go so far as to say that,*^ was the Dawson 
comment. “But maybe it’s possible to persuade you to tell 
me what you know.” 

“It ain’t.” 

“Suppose I decided to leave you here.” 

“ You won’t.” Confidently. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you ain’t shootin’ a unarmed man.” 

“Yet you think I’m the boy to kick one that’s down.” 

“Sometimes I change my mind,” said Bull with a harsh 
laugh. 

“You laugh as loud as that again,” said Racey, irritably, 
“and you’ll change somethin’ besides yore mind. Don’t be 
too trusting a jake. Bull, not too trusting. I might surprise 
you yet. About that information now — I want it.” 

“If anybody’s gonna make money out of Harpe I am.” 
Thus Bull, stubbornly. 

“I ain’t aimin’ to make money out of Harpe. What I’m 
figuring to make out of him is somethin’ else again.” 

“Whatsa use of lying thataway? Don’t ” 

“That’ll be about all,” interrupted Racey. “You’ve 
called me a liar enough for one night. I ain’t got all kinds of 
patience. You going to tell me what I want to know? ” 

“No, I ain’t.” 


126 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ Yo’re mistaken. You’ll tell me, or you’ll leave town.” 

“Leave town!” 

“Yep, leave town, go away from here, far, far away. So 
far away that you won’t be able to blackmail Jack Harpe. 
See? Yore knowledge won’t be worth a whoop to you then. 
An’ I’ll find out what I want to know from Marie.” 

“She’ll never teU.” 

“Oh, I guess she will,” said Racey, but he knew in his heart 
that worming information out of Marie would not be easy. 
Saving his life was one thing, but giving up information with a 
money value would be quite another. The amiable Marie 
was certainly not working for her health. 

“ Yo’re welcome to what you can get out of her,” said Bull. 

“Then you’ll be starting to-night. From here we’ll go get 
yore hoss and see you safely on yore way.” 

“What’ll you gimme to tell you?” inquired the desperate 
Bull. 

“Nothin’ — not a thin dime, feller. C’mon, let’s go.” 

“Nun-no, not yet. I — say, suppose you lemme talk to 
Jack Harpe first myself. Just you lemme get my share out 
of him, and I’ll tell you all you wanna know.” 

“When you going to him?” Racey demanded, sus- 
piciously. 

“To-night if I can find him. It ain’t so late. But to- 
morrow, anyway.” 

“I’ll give you till sundown to-morrow night. If you ain’t 
ready to tell me then you’ll have to drift.” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” sneered Bull. 

“I’ve said it,” Racey said, shortly, rising to his feet. 

“There’s no ropes on you. Skip. . . . Nemmineyore 

Winchester. She’s all right where she is. So long. Bull, so 
long.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE SURPRISE 

T he sun, lifting over the rim of the world, sprayed its 
rays through the window and splashed with gold the 
face of Racey Dawson. He awoke, and much to the 
profane disgust of Swing Tunstall, shook that worthy awake 
immediately. 

‘‘Aw, lemme sleep, will you?” begged Swing, with suspi- 
cious meekness, reaching surreptitiously for a boot. “You 
lemme alone, that’s a good feller.” 

“Get up,” commanded Racey. “Get up, it’s the early 
worm catches the most fish. Rise and shine. Swing. Never 
let the sun catch you snorin’. Besides, I can’t sleep any more 
myself. I ” 

Wham! Swing’s flung boot shaved Racey ’s surprised ear 
and smashed against the partition. 

“You’ll wake up that Starlight proprietor,” Racey said, 
calmly, as he picked up the boot and dropped it out of the 
window. “ Good dog,” he continued, presumably addressing 
a canine friend without, “leave Swing’s nice new boot alone, 
will you? Don’t go gnawin’ at it thataway. It ain’t a 
bone.” ■ 

Swing, pulling on his pants, left the room, hopping physi- 
cally and mentally. Racey rested both elbows on the sill and 
waited happily for his comrade to appear beneath him. 

“Shucks,” he said in a tone of great surprise when Swing 
shot round the corner of the hotel, “I shore thought there 
was a dog there a-teasin’ that boot. I could have took my 
Bible oath there was a great, big, black, curly-haired feller 

127 % 


128 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


with lots of teeth down there. I saw him. Swing. Shore 
thought I did. Must ’a’ been mistaken. And you went and 
believed me, and got splinters in yore feet because you were 
in such a hurry. Never mind. Swing, here’s the other one.” 

He jerked the boot in question at his friend’s head, and sat 
down on his cot to complete his own dressing. 

Came then the sound of a prodigious yawn from the room 
next door occupied by Jack Harpe. A cot creaked. A boot 
was scraped along the floor. 

“Shore must be a sound sleeper,” said Racey Dawson to 
himself, “if he really did just wake up.” 

He buckled on his gunbelt, set his hat a-tilt on one ear, and 
went down to wash his face and hands in the common basin 
on the wash-bench outside the kitchen door. 

But Swing Tunstall was before him, and was disposed to 
make an issue of the dropped boots. Only by his superior 
agility was Racey enabled to dodge all save a few drops of a 
full bucket of water. 

“ Djever get left ! Djever get left ! ” singsonged Racey from 
the corner of the building, and set the thumb of one hand to 
his nose and twiddled opprobrious fingers at his comrade. 
“You wanna be a li’l bit quicker when you go to souse me. 
Swing. Yo’re too slow, a lot too slow. Yep. Now I 
wouldn’t go for to fling that pail at me. Swing. You might 
bust it, and yore carelessness with crockery thataway has 
already cost you ten dollars and six bits.” 

This was too much for the ruffled Swing. Waving the 
pail he pursued his tormentor round the hotel and into the 
front doorway. Racey fled up the stairs. At the stair foot 
Swing gave over the chase and returned to the washbench to 
resume his face-washing. Racey went on into their room. 
There was in it several articles belonging to Swing that he 
intended to throw out of the window at once. 

But when he had entered the room and the door was closed 
behind him he did not touch any of Swing’s belongings. In- 


THE SURPRISE 


129 

stead he remained standing in the middle of the room looking 
thoughtfully at the floor. What had given him pause was 
the fact that he had found the door ajar. And he knew with 
absolute certainty that he had closed the door tightly before 
he went downstairs. 

It is the vagrant straw that shows the wind’s direction, and 
since the attempt to bushwhack him Racey was not over- 
looking any straws. The door had been ajar. Why.f^ 

There was no closet, and from where he stood he could see 
under both cots. No one lay concealed in the room. The 
bedclothes on Swing’s cot had not been touched. At least 
they were in precisely the position in which they had been 
landed when thrown back by Swing’s careless hand. Racey 
did not believe that his own had been touched, either. But 
the saddlebags and cantenas lying on the floor at the head 
of his cot had certainly been moved. He recalled distinctly 
having, the previous evening, piled the cantenas on top of the 
saddlebags. And now the saddlebags were on top of the 
cantenas. 

He glanced at Swing’s warbags. They had not been 
moved. He wondered if Jack Harpe and the Starlight’s 
owner were still in their rooms. He listened intently. Hear- 
ing no sound he went out into the hall, and knocked gently on 
Jack Harpe’s door and called him softly by name. Getting 
no reply, he lifted the latch and walked in. There were Jack 
Harpe’s saddlebags, cantenas, and rifle in a corner. A coat 
lay on the tumbled blankets of the cot. Otherwise the room 
was empty. 

Racey went out, being careful to close the door tightly, and 
went to the room of the Starlight’s owner. This room, too, 
was empty. Racey returned to his own room, tossed his 
cantenas and saddlebags on the cot, and began feverishly to 
paw through their contents. 

Nothing had been subtracted from or added to the hetero- 
geneous collection of articles in the cantenas. The contents 


130 


THE HEAET OF THE RANGE 


of the off-side saddlebag were in their familiar disorder. 
There was nothing in or about the off-side saddlebag to arouse 
suspicion. Not a thing. 

He unbuckled the flap of the near-side saddlebag, and 
flipped it back. Somebody had been at this saddlebag. He 
was sure of it. His extra shirt, instead of being wadded into 
the fore-end of the saddlebag on top of a pair of socks, had 
been stuffed into the hinder end on top of a pair of under- 
drawers. Which underdrawers should by rights have been 
at the bottom of the leather hold-all. 

But there was something else at the bottom of the saddle- 
bag. It was something long and hard and wrapped in the 
buttonless undershirt despised and rejected by Swing. 

Racey unrolled the undershirt. His eyes stared in genuine 
horror at what the unrolling revealed. It was the commonest 
of butcher knives that someone’s busy hand had wrapped in 
the undershirt. But what was not nearly so common was 
that the broad, thin blade was stained with blood. From 
point to haft the steel was as red as if it had been dipped in a 
pail of paint. Indeed, being dry, it looked not unlike paint. 
But Racey knew that it was not paint. 

‘Tt was dry before it was wrapped in that undershirt,” he 
said to himself, testing the blood on the blade with a specula- 
tive flngernail. “There ain’t a mark on the undershirt. 
Gawd! Here it is again — the earmark of a crime, and no 
crime — ^yet. This is getting monotonous.” 

He laid down the knife, settled his hat, and methodically 
searched Swing Tunstall’s warbags. It turned out a needless 
precaution. He had felt that it would be. But he could 
not afford to take any risks. Having found nothing in 
Swing’s warbags save his friend’s personal belongings, Racey 
slid the knife up his sleeve and went downstairs to breakfast. 
On the way he stopped a moment at a fortuitous knothole 
in the board wall. When he passed on his way the knife was 
no longer with him. 


THE SURPRISE 


131 


Jack Harpe was still eating when Racey eased himself into 
the chair at Swing’s right hand. Jack Harpe nodded to 
Racey and went serenely on with his meal. Racey seized 
knife and fork, squared his elbows, and began to saw at his 
steak. And as he chewed and swallowed and sloshed the 
coffee round in his cup in order to get the full benefit of the 
sugar he wondered whether it was Jack Harpe or Bull to 
whom he was indebted for the butcher knife. It was one of 
the two, he thought. Who else could it be? 

He believed it would be wise to spend most of his spare 
time in his room. At least until he knew the inwardness of 
the butcher-knife incident. It was possible that the man 
who had secreted the knife would return. Racey might well 
be in line for other even more delicate attentions. 

Before going up to his room Racey went to the corral. He 
had left his saddle-blanket out all night, he mentioned to 
Swing in the hearing of Jack Harpe. He was gone five 
minutes. When he returned, strangely enough minus 
the saddle-blanket, he was in time to see Piney Jackson 
dart round the corner of the blacksmith shop, cup his 
hand at his mouth, and raise a stentorian bellow for Jake 
Rule. 

Piney did not wait to see whether the sheriff replied to his 
call. Instead he beckoned violently to the handful of men 
grouped on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. 

“ C’mon over ! ” he bawled. “ Look what I found here this 
morning.” 

Jack Harpe and the owner of the Starlight being among 
those present and responding to the invitation, Racey Dawson 
took a chance and went with the rest. 

“Look at that,” said Piney Jackson, indicating a humped- 
up individual sitting behind the woodpile. 

Racey and the other spectators went round the woodpile 
and viewed the humped-up individual. The latter was Bull, 
the Starlight bartender. And he was dead, very dead. His 


132 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

throat had been cut from ear to ear. He was a ghastly ob- 
ject. 

“Who done it?” inquired one of the fools that infest every 
group of men. 

“He didn’t leave any card,” the blacksmith replied with 
sarcasm. 

The fool asked no more questions. Came then Jake Rule 
and Kansas Casey. Jake, a rather heavy, well-meaning 
officer, old at the business, began to sniff about for clues. 
Kansas Casey laid the body down on its back and thoroughly 
searched the pockets of the clothing, 

“One thing,” said Kansas Casey, looking up from what 
he had found — a handful of silver dollars, a pocket knife, and 
a silver watch, “robbery wasn’t the motive.” 

Racey looked sidewise from under his eyebrows at Jack 
Harpe. The latter was staring down unmoved at the dead 
body. 

“Somebody must ’a’ had a grudge against Bull,” offered 
the fool. 

“You think so?” said Piney. “Yo’re a real bright feller.” 

The fool subsided a second time. 

“Lookit here, Jake,” Piney continued to the sheriff’s 
address, “you don’t have to kick my wood all over the 
county, do you?” 

“I’m lookin’ for the knife,” explained the sheriff, ceasing 
not to stub his toes against the solid chunks. “Feller after 
doing a thing like this gets flustrated sometimes and drops 
the knife. And finding the knife might be a help in locating 
the feller.” 

All of which seemed sufficiently logical to the bystanders. 

Racey decided he had seen enough. Besides, he wanted 
to camp closer to his warbags. He should have been in his 
room before this, and he would have been had he cared to 
make hjmself conspicuous by not going along with the crowd 
to see what Piney Jackson had found. 


THE SURPRISE 


133 


Declining Swing’s earnest invitation to drink he returned to 
the hotel. Swing went grouchily to the Happy Heart, 
wondering what was the matter with his friend. It was not 
like the Racey he knew to play the hermit. 

Once in his room Racey again explored his own and Swing’s 
saddlebags and cantenas, looked under the cots and through 
the bedclothes. But he found nothing that did not belong 
to either himself or Swing. 

“They didn’t make a second trip,” he said to himself. 
“I’m betting it’s Jack Harpe. Shore it is, the polecat.” 

Then in order to have a water-tight reason for remaining 
in the room he pulled off his boots and trousers, fished a house- 
wife from a cantena, and set about repairing a rip in his 
trousers. It was a perfectly good rip. He had had it a long 
time. What more natural that on this particular day he 
should wish to sew it up? 

It was an hour later that he heard the tramp of several pairs 
of boots on the stairs. He could hear the wheezing, laboured 
breathing of Bill Lainey, the hotel proprietor. Climbing the 
stairs always bothered Bill. The latter and his followers 
came along the hall and stopped in front of Racey’s door. 

“This is his room,” panted Bill Lainey. 

Unceremoniously the latch was lifted. A man entered. 
The man was Jake Rule, the sheriff of Fort Creek County. 
He was followed by Kansas Casey, his deputy. 

Jake looked serious. But Kansas was smiling as he 
closed the door behind him. Then he opened it quickly and 
thrust his head into the hall. 

“No need of you. Bill,” he said. 

“Aw right,” said Bill, aggrievedly, and forthwith shuffled 
away. 

Kansas withdrew his head and nodded to Jake Rule. 
“He’s gone,” he said. 

Racey Dawson, sitting crosslegged on his cot and plying 
his needle in most workmanhke fashion, grinned comfortably 


134 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


at the two officers. Lord, how glad he was he had found that 
knife! If he hadn’t 

“Sidown, gents,” invited Racey. “There’s two chairs, or j 
you can have Swing’s cot if you like.” ! 

Jake Rule shook his head. “We don’t wanna sit ! 
down, Racey,” he said. “We got a li’l business with you, | 
maybe.” I 

“Maybe? Then you ain’t shore about it?” ! 

“Not unless yo’re willing. You see, Dolan’s drunk to-day, \ 
and of course we can’t get a warrant till he’s sober.” I 

“A warrant? For me?” | 

“Not yet,” said Jake Rule. “Only a search warrant — 
first. But of course if you ain’t willing we can’t even touch | 
anything.” 

“Still, Racey,” put in Kansas Casey, smoothly, “if you 
could see yore way to letting us go through yore warbags, 
yores and Swing’s, it would be a great help, and we’d re- 
member it — after.” 

“Yeah, we shore would,” declared the sheriff. “You save 
us trouble now, Racey, and I’ll guarantee to make you al- 
mighty comfortable in the calaboose. You won’t have noth- 
ing to complain of. Not a thing.” 

Racey laughed cheerily. “Got me in jail already, have 
you?” he chuckled. “You’ll have me hung next.” 

“Oh, they’s quite some formalities to go through before 
that happens,” declared the sheriff, seriously. 

“I’m glad,” drawled Racey. “I thought maybe you were 
fixing to take me right out and string me up before dinner. 
Want to search our stuff, huh? Hop to it. Swing ain’t 
here, but I’ll give you permission for him. He won’t mind.” 

Jake and Kansas went at the warbags like terriers digging 
out a badger. Racey leaned on his elbow and watched 
them. What luck that the door had been ajar and that he 
had noticed it ! If it had not been a life-and-death matter he 
would have laughed aloud. 


THE SURPRISE 


135 


At the end of twenty minutes the officers stood up. They 
had gone through everything in the room, including the cots. 
Kansas Casey wore a pleased smile. Jake Rule looked dis- 
appointed. 

“Don’t look so glum, Jake,” urged Racey. “Is it a fair 
question to ask what yo’re hunting for?” 

“The knife,” he said, shortly. “The knife that cut Bull’s 
throat.” 

“The knife, huh?” remarked Racey as if to himself. “So 
yo’re suspectin’ me of wiping out Bull, are you?” 

“I never did,” said Kansas, promptly. “I know you. 
You ain’t that kind.” 

Jake looked reproachfully at his deputy. “You never can 
tell, Racey,” he said, turning to the puncher. “I’ve got so 
myself I don’t trust nobody no more.” 

“Was this here yore own idea,” pursued Racey, “or did 
somebody sic you onto me?” 

Jake made no immediate answer. It was obvious that he 
was of two minds whether to speak or not. 

“Why not tell him?” suggested Kansas. “What’s the 
odds?” 

At this Jake took a piece of paper from his vest pocket and 
handed it to Racey. 

“I found this lying on the floor of my office when I come 
back after attending to Bull,” was his explanation. 

There were words printed on the slip of paper. They 
read: 

Look in Racey Dawson’s room for what killed Bull. 

The communication was unsigned. 

Racey handed it back to Jake Rule. “ Got any idea who 
put it in yore office?” he asked. 

Jake shook his head. “I dunno,” he said. “The window 
was open. Anybody passing could ’a’ throwed it in.” 


136 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“You satisfied now, Jake, or ” Racey did not complete 

the sentence. 

“Oh, I’m satisfied you didn’t do it,” replied the sheriff, “if 
that’s what you mean. But — the man who wrote this 
here joke /” 

As he spoke he tore the note in two, dropped the pieces on 
the floor, and stamped out of the room. Kansas Casey looked 
over his shoulder as he followed in the wake of his superior. 

He saw Racey Dawson picking up the two pieces of the 
note. Racey’s mouth was a grim, uncompromising line. 

“If Racey ever finds out who wrote that,” thought Kansas 
to himself, pulling the door shut, “hell will shore pop. And 
I hope it does.” 

For he liked Racey Dawson, did Kansas Casey, the deputy 
sheriff. 


CHAPTER XV 


FIRE ! FIRE ! 


W HY didn’t you tell me at breakfast?” demanded 
Swing TunstalL 

“And give it away to Jack Harpe!” said scornful 
Racey. “Shore, that would ’a’ been a bright thing to do 
now, wouldn’t it?” 

“Whatdidja do with the knife?” 

“Dropped it through a knothole in the wall. The only 
way they’ll ever get hold of it is by tearing the building 
down.” 

“Jack Harpe, if he is the feller, will know you found it and 
try again.” ' 

“Shore. We can’t help that. One thing, we’ll know be- 
fore the day is over whether it is Jack Harpe or not.” 
“How?” 

“Remember me this morning telling you how I’d left my 
saddle-blanket out all night and then going out in the corral 
for the same. I said it so Jack could hear me. He did hear 
me, and he watched me go. He saw me go out round the 
corral, and he saw me come back without the saddle-blanket. 
Now anybody’d know I wouldn’t leave my saddle-blanket 
out behind the corral, would I?” 

“Not likely.” 

. “But a feller who’d just found a knife with blood on it in 
his warbags might go out back of the corral to lose the knife, 
mightn’t he?” 

“He might.” 

“Well, that’s what I did. Naturally, having already lost 
137 


138 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


the knife down through the knothole I couldn’t lose her 
again. But I did the best I could. I dug in the ground with 
a sharp stick, and I made a li’l hole like, and I filled her in 
again, and tramped her all down flat, and sort of half 
smoothed down the roughed-up ground like I was trying to 
hide my tracks and what I’d been doing. Then I came away. 

“Now I’m betting that if Jack Harpe is the lad tucked 
away that knife in my warbags he’ll go skirmishing out behind 
the corral to see what I was really doing.” 

“Maybe.” Doubtfully. 

“There ain’t any maybe if he’s the man turned the trick. 
And from where we’re a-laying under this wagon we can see 
the back of the corral plain as There he comes now.” 

The posts of the corral were less than a hundred yards from 
where Racey and Swing lay beneath a pole-propped freight 
wagon. From the wagon, which was standing beyond the 
stage company’s corral, the ground sloped gently to the hotel 
corral. Racey had taken the precaution to mask their po- 
sition with a cedar bush. 

Hatless he peered through the branches at the man quarter- 
ing the ground behind the hotel corral. 

“He’s getting close to where I made that hole,” he told 
Swing. “Now he’s found it,” he resumed as the man dropped 
on his knees. “Jack Harpe all along. Ain’t he the humour- 
some codger.^” 

“He shore couldn’t ’a’ dug up that hole already,” declared 
Swing when Jack Harpe jumped to his feet after a sojourn on 
his knees of possibly thirty seconds’ duration. 

“No,” assented Racey, puzzled. “He couldn’t. There’s 
an odd number,” he added, as Jack Harpe pelted back at a 
brisk trot over the way he had come. “Le’s not go just yet. 
Swing. I have a feeling.” 

He was glad of this feeling when ten minutes later Jack 
Harpe returned with Jake Rule and Kansas Casey. The 
latter carried a shovel. The three men clustered round the 


FIRE! FIRE! 


139 


spot where Racey had dug his hole. Kansas Casey set his 
foot on the shovel and drove it into the ground. Racey 
chuckled at the pleasant sight. What must inevitably 
follow would be even pleasanter. 

The deputy sheriff made the dirt fly for six minutes. Then 
he threw down the shovel, pushed back his hat, and wiped his 
face on his sleeve. He spoke, but his language was un- 
intelligible. Jack Harpe said something and picked up the 
shovel. He began to dig. He cast the earth about for 
possibly five minutes. 

“Ain’t he the prairie-dog, huh?” Racey demanded, jabbing 
his comrade in the ribs with stiffened thumb. “Just watch 
him scratch gravel.” 

Suddenly Jake Rule and Kansas Casey turned their backs 
on the frantically labouring Jack Harpe and walked away. 
Jack Harpe watched them, threw up a few more half-hearted 
shovelfuls, and then slammed the implement to earth with a 
clatter, hitched up his pants, and strode hurriedly after the 
officers. 

“That proves it, I guess,” said Swing. 

“Naturally. She’s enough for us, anyhow. it to ! ” 

“Whatsa matter?” inquired Swing, surprised at his friend’s 
vehemence. 

“Whatsa matter? Whatsa matter? Everythin’s the 
matter. I just happened to think that now Bull won’t be 
able to tell me what he was going to to-night.” 

“That’ so. Can’t you ask the girl?” 

“I can, but I ain’t shore it’ll do any good. Marie ain’t 
the kind that blats all she knows just to hear herself talk. If 
she wants to tell me she will. If she don’t want to, she won’t. 
Bull was my one best bet.” 

“What’s that?” cried Swing, raising himself on an elbow. 

“That” was the noise of a tumult in Farewell Main Street. 
There were shouts and yells and screams. Above all, 
screams. Racey and Swing hurried to the street. When 


140 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


they reached it the shouts and yells had subsided, but the 
screams had not. If anything they were louder than before. 
They issued from the mouth of Marie, whom Jake Rule, 
Kansas Casey, and four other men were taking to the cala- 
boose. They were doing their duty as gently as possible, 
and Marie was making it as difificult for them as possible. 
She was as mad as a teased rattlesnake, and not a man of her 
six captors but bore the marks of fingernails, or teeth, or heels. 

She had, it appeared, attacked without warning and with 
a derringer. Jack Harpe as he was walking peacefully along 
the sidewalk in front of the Starlight. Only by good luck 
and a loose board that had turned under the girl’s foot as she 
fired had Mr. Harpe been preserved from sudden death. 

“That’s shore tough,” Racey said to their informant. 
“I’m goin’ right away now and get me a hammer and some 
nails and fix that loose board.” 

“You better not let Jack Harpe hear you say that,” 
cautioned the other. 

“If you want something to do, suppose now you tell him,” 
was Racey ’s instant suggestion. 

Racey ’s tone was light, but his stare was hard. The other 
man went away. 

“Fire! Fire!” shrilled young Sam Brown Calloway, 
bouncing out of his father’s store, and jumping up and down 
in the middle of Main Street. “The jail’s afire! The jail’s 
afire ! ” 

Men added their shouts to his childish squalls and ran 
toward the jail. Racey and Swing trundled along the side- 
walk together. “She’s afire, all right,” said Racey. “Lookit 
the smoke siftin’ through the window at the corner.” 

The smoke was followed by a vicious lash of flame that 
whipped up the side of the building and set the eaves alight. 
The glass of another window fell through the bars with a 
tinkle. A billow of smoke rushed forth. Smoke was seeping 
through cracks at the back of the building. 


FIRE! FIRE! 


141 


“My Gawd!” exclaimed Racey, as a shriek rent the air. 
“The girl’s in there!” 

He had foi^ the moment forgotten that Marie was in- 
carcerated in the jail. But Kansas Casey had not forgotten. 
Racey, having picked up a handy axe, raced round to the back 
only to find the deputy unlocking the back door. A burst of 
smoke as he flung open the door assailed their lungs. Chok- 
ing, holding their breath, both men dashed into the jail. 
Kansas unlocked the girl’s cell. 

“You shore took yore time about cornin’,” drawled Marie. 
“I didn’t know but what I’d be burned up with the rest of the 
jail. You big lummox! You don’t have to bust my wrist, 
do you? Go easy, or I’ll claw yore face off ! ” 

Once outside they were immediately surrounded by the 
townsfolk. Most of them were laughing. But Jake Rule 
was not laughing. 

“Good joke on you, Jake,” grinned a friend. “Burned 
herself out on you, didn’t she?” 

“You can’t keep a good man down,” shouted another. 

“Never let the baby play with matches,” advised a third. 

“Get pails, gents!” shouted Rule. “We gotta put it out. 
Where’s a pail? Who ” 

“Aw, let ’er burn,” said Calloway. “Hownell you gonna 
put it out? She’s all blazin’ inside. You couldn’t put it out 
with Shoshone Falls.” 

“The wind’s blowin’ away from town,” contributed Mike 
Flynn. “Nothin’ else ’ll catch. Besides, we been needing a 
new calaboose for a long time. You done us a better turn 
than you think, Marie.” 

“If you say I set the jail afire, Mike Flynn,” cried Marie, 
“Yo’re a liar by the clock.” 

“You set it afire,” said the sheriff, sternly. * “You’ll find it 
a serious business setting a jail afire.” 

“Prove I done it, then!” squalled Marie. “Prove it, you 
slab-sided hunk ! Yah, you can’t prove it, and you know it ! ” 


142 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


To this the sheriff made no reply. 

“We gotta put her somewhere till the Judge gets sober,” 
he said, hurriedly. “Guess we’ll put her in yore back room, 
Mike.” 

“Guess you won’t,” countered Mike. “They ain’t any 
insurance on my place, and I ain’t taking no chances, not a 
chance.” 

“There’s the hotel,” suggested Kansas Casey. 

“You don’t use my hotel for no calaboose,” squawked Bill 
Lainey. “Nawsir. Not much. You put her in yore own 
house, Jake. Then if she sets you afire, it’s your own fault. 
Yeah.” 

Jake Rule scratched his head. It was patent that he did 
not quite know what to do. Came then Dolan, the local 
justice of the peace. Dolan’s hair was plastered well over 
his ears and forehead. Dolan was pale yellow of counte- 
nance and breathed strongly through his nose. He looked 
not a little sick. He pawed a way through the crowd and cast 
a bilious glance at Marie. 

He inquired of Jake Rule as to the trouble and its cause. 
On being told he convened court on the spot. Judge Dolan 
agreed with Mike Flynn that the burning of the jail was a 
trivial matter requiring no oflScial attention. For was not 
Dolan’s brother-in-law a carpenter and would undoubtedly 
be given the contract for a new jail. Quite so. 

“You can’t prove anything about this jail-burning,” he 
told Jake Rule and the assembled multitude, “but this assault 
on Jack Harpe is a cat with another tail. It was a lawless act 
and hadn’t oughta happened. Marie, yo’re a citizen of Fare- 
well, and you’d oughta take an interest in the community 
instead of surging out and trying to massacre a visitor in our 
midst, a visitor who’s figuring on settlin’ hereabouts, I under- 
stand. Gawd knows we need all the inhabitants we can 
get, and it’s just such tricks as yores, Marie, that discourages 
immigration.” 


FIRE! FIRE! 


143 , 


Here Judge Dolan frowned upon Marie and thumped the 
palm of his hand with a bony fist. Marie stood first on one 
leg and then on the other and hung her head down. Since her 
raving outburst at the time of her arrest she had cooled 
considerably. It was evident that she was now trying to 
make the best of a bad business. 

“Marie,” resumed Judge Dolan, and cleared his throat 
importantly, “why did you shoot at Mr. Jack Harpe?” 

“He insulted me,” Marie replied without a quiver. 

“I ain’t ever said a word to her,” countered Jack Harpe. 
“I don’t even know the girl.” 

The judge turned back to Marie. “Have you any wit- 
nesses to this insult?” he queried. 

“Nary a witness.” Marie shook her brown head. 

“Y’ oughta have a witness. She’s yore word against his. 
Where did this insult take place?” 

“At my shack. He come there early this mornin’.” 

“That’s a lie!” boomed Jack Harpe. 

. “Which will be about all from you!” snapped Judge 
Dolan, vigorously pounding his palm. 

“What did he say to you?” was the judge’s next question. 

“I’d rather not tell,” hedged Marie. 

“Well, of course, you don’t have to answer,” said the 
judge, gallantly. “But alia same, Marie, you hadn’t oughta 
used a gun on him. It — ^it ain’t ladylike. Nawsir. Don’t 
you do it again or I’ll send you to Piegan City. Ten dollars 
or ten days.” 

“What?” Thus Jack Harpe, astonished beyond measure. 

“Ten dollars or ten days,” repeated Judge Dolan. “Tak- 
ing a shot at you is worth ten dollars but no more. It don’t 
make any difference whether you came here t© invest money 
or not, you wanna go slow round the women.” 

“But I didn’t even say howdy to her,” protested Jack 
Harpe. 

“She says different. You leave her alone.” 


144 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Public opinion, which at first had rather favoured Jack 
Harpe, now frowned upon him. He shouldn’t have insulted 
the girl. No, su’, he had no business doing that. Be a good 
thing if he was arrested for it, perhaps. What a virtuous 
thing is public opinion. 

‘T ain’t got a nickel. Judge,” said Marie. “You’ll have 
to trust me for it till the end of the week.” 

“I’ll pay her fine,” nipped in Racey, glad of an opportunity 
to annoy Jack Harpe. “Here y’ are. Judge. Ten dollars, 
you said.” 

It was a few minutes after he had eaten dinner that Racey 
Dawson presented himself at the door of Kansas Casey’s 
shack. The door was open. Racey stood in the doorway 
and leaned the shovel against the wall of the room. 

“You forgot yore shovel, Kansas,” he said, gently, “or 
Jack Harpe did. Same thing, and here it is.” 

Kansas had the grace to look a trifle shamefaced. “ Some- 
body said you’d buried that knife ”he began, and stopped. 

“Yep, I know. Jack Harpe,” smiled Racey. “Li’l Bright 
Eyes is shore a friend of mine. Only I wouldn’t bank too 
strong on what he says about me.” 

“I ain’t,” denied the deputy. 

“Another thing, Kansas,” drawled Racey, “did you ever 
stop to think how come he knowed so much about that knife? 
And did you ask him if he was the gent left that paper in 
Jake’s office? And going on from that did you ask him why 
he didn’t come out flat footed at first and say what he 
thought h-e knowed instead of waiting till after you’d searched 
my room? You don’t have to answer, Kansas, only if I was 
you I’d think it over, I’d think it over plenty. So long.” 

From the house of Casey he went to the shack of Marie. 
He found the girl cooking her dinner quite as if attempts at 
murder, dead men, and jailburning were matters of small 
moment. But if her manner was placid, her eyes were not. 
They were bright and hard, and they flickered stormily upon 


FIRE! FIRE! 


145 


him when she lifted her gaze from the pan of frying potatoes 
and saw who it was standing in the doorway. 

“I’m obliged to you,” she said, calmly, “for payin’ my 
fine. You ran away so quick this mornin’ you didn’t gimme 
any chance to thank you. I’ll pay you back soon’s I get paid 
come Saturday.” 

Racey stared reproachfully. He shifted his weight from 
one uncomfortable foot to the other. “I didn’t come here 

about the fine,” he told her. “I ” He stopped, uncertain 

whether to continue or not. 

“If you didn’t come about the fine it must be something 
else important,” said she, insultingly. “I shore oughta be set 
up, I suppose. So far it’s always been me that’s had to make 
all the moves.” 

“‘Moves?’” repeated Racey, frankly puzzled. 

“Moves/’ she mimicked. “Didn’t you ever play checkers? 
Oh, nemmine, nemmine! Don’t take it to heart. I don’t 
mean nothin’. Never did. C’mon in an’ set. Take a chair. 
That one. What do you want? Down feller, down!” 

The command was called forth by the violent entry of the 
yellow dog which, remembering Racey as a friend, flung itself 
upon him with whines and tail-waggings. 

“He’s all right,” said Racey, rubbing the rough head. “I 
just thought I’d ask you what you knew about Jack Harpe.” 

Marie’s narrowed eyes turned dark with suspicion. 
“Whadda you know about me an’ Jack Harpe?” she de- 
manded. 

“Not as much as I’d like to know,” was his frank reply, 

“I ain’t talkin’.” Shortly. 

“Now, lookit here ” he began, wheedlingly. 

She shook her head at him. “ S’no use. I don’t tell every- 
thing I know.” ^ 

“Then you do know something about Jack Harpe?” 

“I didn’t say I did.” 

“You didn’t. But ” 


146 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


‘'That’s what the goat done to the stone wall. Look out 
you don’t bust yore horns, too.” 

“Meanin’?” 

“Meanin’ you’ll knock ’em off short before you get any- 
thing out o’ me I don’t want to tell you. And I tell you flat 
I ain’t talkin’ over Jack Harpe with you.” 

“Scared to?” he hazarded, boldly. 

“You can give it any name you like. Pull up a chair. 
Dinner’s most ready. They’s enough for two.” 

Despite the fact that he had just dined at the hotel he ac- 
cepted her invitation in the hope that she could be persuaded 
to talk. And after dinner he smoked several cigarettes with 
her — still hoping. Finally, finding that nothing he could 
say was of any avail to move her, he took up his hat and de- 
parted. 

“Don’t go away mad,” she called after him. 

“I ain’t,” he denied, and went on, her mocking laughter 
ringing in his ears. 

After Racey was gone out of sight Marie turned back into 
her little house. There was no laughter on her lips or in her 
eyes as she sat down in a chair beside the table and stared 
across it at the chair in which Racey had been sitting. 

“He’s a nice boy,” she whispered under her breath, after a 
time. “I wish — I wish ” 

But what it was she wished it is impossible to relate, for, 
instead of completing the sentence, she hid her face in her 
hands and began to cry. 

Early next morning Racey Dawson and Swing Tunstall 
rode out of town by the Marysville trail. They were bound 
for the Bar S and a job. 

* * * * He * * 

“What have you been drinkin’, Racey?” demanded Mr. 
Saltoun, winking at his son-in-law and foreman, Tom Lou- 
don. 


FIRE! FIRE! 147 

The latter did not return the wink. He kept a sober gaze 
fastened on Racey Dawson. 

Racey was staring at Mr. Saltoun. His eyes began to 
narrow. “Meanin’.?” he drawled. 

“Now don’t go crawlin’ round huntin’ offense where none’s 
meant,” advised Mr. Saltoun. “But you know how it is 
yoreself, Racey. Any gent who gets so full he can’t pick 
out his own hoss, and goes weaving off on somebody else’s 
is liable to make mistakes other ways. You gotta admit 
it’s possible.” 

The slight tinge of red underlying Racey’s heavy coat of 
tan acknowledged the corn. “It’s possible,” he admitted. 

Mr. Saltoun saw his advantage and seized it. “S’pose 
now this is another mistake?” 

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said Racey. “You said you had 
jobs for a couple of handsome young fellers like us. Aw 
right. We go to work. We ride for you six months for noth- 
mg. 

“Huh?” Mr. Saltoun and Tom Loudon stared their 
astonishment. 

“Oh, the cat’s got more of a tail than that,” said Racey. 
“You don’t pay us a nickel for those six months provided what 
I said will happen, don’t happen. If it does happen like I 
say, you pay each of us two hundred large round simoleons 
per each and every month.” 

“Come again,” said Mr. Saltoun, wrinkling his forehead. 

Racey came again as requested. 

“Six months is a long time ” frowned Mr. Saltoun. “If I 
lose ” 

“But I dunno what I’m talkin’ about,” pointed out Racey. 
“I make mistakes, you know that. And you were so shore 
nothin’ was gonna happen. Are you still shore?” 

“Well ” hesitated Mr. Saltoun. 

“If you take us up you stand to be in the wages of two 
punchers for six months. That’s four hundred and eighty 


148 


THE HEART OF THE RAJNGE 


dollars. Almost five hundred dollars. Of course, it’s a 
chance. What ain’t, I’d like to know? But yo’re so shore 
she’s gonna keep on come-day-go-day like always, that I’d 
oughta have odds.” 

“Five to one,” mused Mr. Saltoun, pulling at the ends of 
his gray mustache. 

“And fair enough — seeing that nothing is going to hap- 
pen.” 

“I wouldn’t do it,” put in Tom Loudon. “These trick 
bets are unlucky.” 

“Oh, I dunno,” said Mr. Saltoun, running true to form 
in that he rarely took kindly to advice. “Looks like a 
good chance to get six months’ work out of two men for 
nothing.” 

“Looks like a good chance to lose twenty-four hundred 
dollars,” exclaimed Tom Loudon, wrathfully. 

“My Gawd, Tom,” said M[r. Saltoun, cocking a grizzled 
eyebrow, “you don’t mean to tell me you think they’s any 
chance a-tall of Racey’s winning this bet, do you?” 

“They’s just about ten times more chance for him to win 
than to lose.” 

“Tom, do you ever see any li’l pink lizards with blue tails 
an’ red feet? I hear that’s a sign, too.” 

“Aw right, have it yore own way,” said Tom Loudon with 
every symptom of disgust. “Only don’t say I didn’t warn 
you.” 

“Gawd, Tom, y’ old wet blanket, yo’re always a-warnin’ 
me. I never see such a feller.” 

“Aw right, I said. Aw right. But when yo’re a-writin’ 
out a check for twenty-four hundred dollars, just remember 
how I always told you somebody was gonna horn in here 
some day and glom half the range.” 

“Laugh,” said Mr. Saltoun. “Yo’re shore the jokin’est 
feller, Tom Loudon. Even Racey and his partner are laugh- 
ing.” 


FERE! FIRE! 


149 


“I should think they would,” Tom Loudon returned, 
savagely. “ I’d laugh, too, if I stood to win twenty-four hun- 
dred in six months. 

Mr. Saltoun shook a whimsical head at Racey Dawson. 
“ Whatsa use? ” he asked, sorrowfully. “ Whatsa use? ” 

* 5fc Jic * * * 

“You was too easy with him,” declared Swing, as he and 
Racey were unsaddling at the Bar S corral. “You could ’a’ 
stuck him for three hundred a month just as easy.” 

Racey shook a decided head. “No, there’s a limit even 
to Old Salt’s stubbornness. I know him better ’n you do . . . 
Aw, what you kicking about? We’ve got enough coin in 
our overalls to last out six months if you don’t drink too 
much.” 

“If I don’t drink too much, hey! If I don’t drink too 
much! Which I like that. Wio’s ” 

“Racey,” interrupted Tom Loudon, who had approached 
unperceived, “this is a fine way to treat yore friends.” 

“What’s bitin’ you?” 

“You hadn’t oughta take advantage of Old Salt this- 
away.” 

“And why not? What’s wrong with the bet? Fair bet. 
Leave it to anybody.” 

“Shore, shore, but alia same, Racey, you’d oughta gone 
a li’l easy. Twenty-four hundred dollars ” 

“What’s the dif? You won’t have to pay it.” 

“ ’Tsall right, but I didn’t think it of you, damfi did. You 
know how Old Salt is — always certain shore he’s right, and 
you took advantage.” 

“Shore I took advantage,” Racey acquiesced, amiably. 
“I got sense, I have. Alla same, he’d never ’a’ taken me up 
if you hadn’t slipped in yore li’l piece of advice for him not to. 
That was a bad play, Tom. You might know he’d go dead 
against you. But I ain’t complaining, not me. Nor Swing 


150 THE HEAHT OF THE RANGE 

ain’t, either. We’ll thank you for yore helping hand to our 
dying day.” 

‘T guess you will,” Tom Loudon said, ruefully. “When 
you get through here, Racey, you and Swing come on over to 
the wagon shed. I wanna sift through this Jack Harpe busi- 
ness once more.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE BAR S 

Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale. 

Tm an object of sorrow, Tm looking quite stale. 

I gave up my trade selling Pink’s Patent Pills 
To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills.** 

I WISH to Gawd you’d stayed there,” said Jimmie, the 
Bar S cook, pausing in his march past to poke his head 
in at the bunkhouse doorway. “Honest, Racey, don’t 
you ever get tired of yell-bellerin’ thisaway?” 

Racey Dawson, standing in front of the mirror, ceased not 
to adjust his necktie. The mirror was small and he was not, 
and it was only by dint of much wriggling that he was 
succeeding in his purpose. To Jimmie and his question he 
paid absolutely no attention. 

*^Don*t go away, stay at home if you can. 

Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne.** 

“Seemin’ly he don’t get tired,” Jimmie answered the 
question for himself. “And what’s more, he don’t ever get 
tired of dandy-floppin’ himself all up like King Solomon’s pet 
pony. Yup,” Jimmie continued with enthusiasm, address- 
ing the world at large, “ I can remember when Racey used to 
ride for the 88 and the Cross-in-a-box how he was a regular 
two-legged human being. A handkerchief round his neck 
was good enough for him always. If his pants had a rip in 
’em anywheres, or they was buttons off his vest, or his shirt 

151 


152 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


was tore, did it matter? No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t 
matter a-tall. But now he’s gotta buy new pants if his 
old ones is tore, and a new shirt besides, and he sews the 
buttons on his vest, and he’s took to wearin’ a necktie. A 
necktie 

Jimmie, words failing him for the moment, paused and 
hooked one foot comfortably behind the other. He leaned 
hipshot against the doorjamb, and spat accurately through a 
knothole in the bunkhouse floor. 

“ Yop,” he went on, ramming his quid into the angle of his 
jaw, “and he’s always admiring himseK in the mirror, Racey 
is. He pats his hair down, after partin’ it and usin’ enough 
goose-grease on it to keep forty guns from rusting for ten 
years, and he shines his boots with blacking, my stove-black- 
ing, the rustling scoundrel. Scrouge southwest a li’l more, 
Racey, and look at yore chin. They’s a li’l speck of dust 
on it. Oh, me, oh, my! Li’l sweetheart will have to wash 
his face again. Who is she?” 

Still Racey did not deign to reply. He placed, removed, 
and replaced a garnet stickpin in the necktie a dozen times 
handrunning. Jimmie beat the long roll with his knuckles 
on the bottom of the frying-pan, and winked at the broad 
back of Racey Dawson. 

“ I hear they’s a new hasher at Bill Lainey’s hotel,” pursued 
the indefatigable Jimmie. “Tim Page told me she only 
weighed three hundred pounds without her shoes. It ain’t 
her! Don’t tell me it’s her ! You ain’t, are you, Racey?” 

Racey, pivoting on a spurred heel, faced Jimmie, stuck his 
arms akimbo, and spoke: 

“Not mentioning any names, of course, but there’s some 
people round here got an awful lot to say. Which if a gent 
was to say their tongues are hung in the middle he’d be only 
tellin’ half the truth. Not that you ain’t popular with me, 
James. You are. I think the world of you. How can I help 
it when you remind me all the time of my aunt’s pet parrot 


THE BAR S 


153 


in yore face and language. Except you ain’t the right 
colour. If yore whiskers had only grown out green.” 

“We’re forgetting what we was talkin’ about,” tucked in 
Jimmie the cook, smiling sweetly. “The lady, Racey. Who 
is she?” 

“James,” said Racey, his smile matching that of the cook, 
“ they ’s something about you to-day, something I don’t like. 
I dunno the name for it exactly. But if you’ll step inside the 
bunkhouse a minute. I’ll show you what I mean. I’ll show 
you in two shakes.” 

Jimmie shook a wise head and backed out into the open. 
“Not while I got my health. You come out here and show 
me.” 

“Oh, I ain’t gonna play any tricks on you,” protested 
Racey Dawson. 

“You bet you ain’t,” Jimmie concurred, warmly. “Not 
by severial jugfuls. I ” He broke off, cocking a listen- 

ing ear. 

“Yeah,” grinned Racey, “you hear a noise in the cook- 
shack, huh? I thought I saw the Kid slide past in the lookin’- 
glass while you were standing in the doorway.” 

“And you never told me!” squalled Jimmie, speeding 
toward his beloved place of business. 

He reached it rather late. When he entered by the door- 
way the Kid, a pie in each hand, was disappearing through a 
back window. 

“Did you ever get left!” tossed back the Kid as the flung 
frying-pan buzzed past his ear. •- “Now see what you done,” 
he continued, skipping safely out of range; “dented yore nice 
new frypan all up. You oughtn’ta done that, Jimmie. Try- 
pans cost money. Some day, if you ain’t careful, you’ll break 
something, you and yore temper.” 

“Them’s the Old Man’s pies,” declared Jimmie, leaning 
over the window-sill and shaking an indignant fist at the 
Kid. “You bring ’em back, you hear?” 


154 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“They ain’t, and I won’t, and I do,” was the brisk answer. 
“Yo’re making a big mistake, Jimmie boy, if you think 
they’re his pies. Don’t you s’pose I know he’s gone to 
Piegan City, and he won’t be back for a coupla weeks And 
don’t you s’pose I know them pies would be too stale for him 
to eat by the time he got back? You must take me for a fool, 
Jimmie. And you lied to me, Jimmie, you lied. Just for 
that I’ll keep these pies. I’ll keep ’em and eat ’em no matter 
how big a pain I get, and let this be a lesson to you. Hey, 
Racey, Jimmie gimme a coupla pies! C’mon out and we’ll 
eat ’em where Jimmie can watch us.” 

“If I catch you ” began the angry Jimmie. 

“But you ain’t gonna catch me,” tantalized the Kid. 
“C’mon, Racey, hurry up.” 

Racey came slowly and with dignity. 

The Kid stared. “Well, I bedam! Where are you 
goin’?” 

“Ride, just a li’l ride,” was the vague reply. 

“Is that all? I thought it was a funeral or a wedding or 
something, an’ I was wonderin’. Just a li’l ride, huh? And 
where might you be a-going to ride to, if I may make so bold 
as to ask?” 

“You can ask, of course,” replied Racey, shrugging his 
wide shoulders and spreading his hands after the fashion of 
Telescope Laguerre. 

“But that ain’t sayin’ he’ll tell you,” put in Jimmie. 
“Bet you he’s gonna go see that new hasher of Bill Lainey’s.” 

“No,” denied the Kid, judicially, “not that lady. Even 

Racey’s arms ain’t long enough to reach round her. I 

Say^ one of these pies is a raisin pie!” 

“You can gimme that one,” suggested Racey Dawson, 
glad of an opportunity to change the subject. 

The Kid, his teeth sunk in the raisin pie, shook a decisive 
head and mumbled unintelligibly. He thrust the other pie 
toward his friend. 


THE BAR S 


155 


Racey Dawson rode away westward munching pie. And 
it was a very good pie, and would have brought credit to any 
cook. He regretfully ate the last crumb, and rolled a ciga- 
rette. He felt fairly full and at utter peace with the world. 
Why not? Wasn’t it a good old world, and a mighty friendly 
world despite the Harpes and Tweezys and Joneses that in- 
fested it? I should say so. 

Racey Dawson inhaled luxuriously, pushed back his wide 
I hat, and let the breeze ruffle his brown hair. He rubbed the 
I back of one hand across his straight eyebrows, and stared 
across the range toward the distant hills that marked his 
goal. Which goal was the old C Y ranch-house at Moccasin 
Spring on Soogan Creek, where lived the Dales and their 
daughter Molly. 

And as he looked at the hill and bethought him of what lay 
beyond it, he drew a Winchester from the scabbard under his 
left leg and made sure that he had not forgotten to load it. 
For Racey laboured under no delusion as to the danger that 
menaced not only his own existence but that of his friend 
Swing. He knew that their lives hung by a thread, and a 
thin thread at that. They were but two against many, and 
their position had not been aided by the string of uneventful 
I days succeeding their advent at the Bar S. For their enemies 
were taking their time in the launching of their enterprise. 
And Racey had not expected this. It threw him off his 
balance somewhat. Certainly it worried him. 

It was not humanly possible that Jack Harpe could be 
aware that Old Man Saltoun did not believe what Racey had 
told him. But he was acting as if he knew. Perhaps he was 
waiting till Nebraska Jones should be entirely well of his 
wound. That was possible, but not probable. Jack Harpe 
had not impressed Racey as a man who would allow his plans 
to be indefinitely held up for such a cause. There was no 
telling when Nebraska would be up and about. His recovery, 
thanks to past dissipations, had been exceedingly slow. 


156 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Again, perhaps the delay might be merely a detail of the 
plan Fat Jakey Pooley mentioned in his letter to Luke 
Tweezy, or it might be due to the more-than-watchful care 
the Dales and Morgans were taking of old Mr. Dale. 
Wherever the old gentleman went, some one of his relations 
went with him. Certainly no ill-wisher had been able to 
approach Mr. Dale (since his spree at McFluke’s) at any 
time. Mr. Dale, to all intents and purposes, was impossible 
to isolate. 

At any rate, whatever the reason, the fact remained that 
Harpe had not moved and showed no signs of moving. 
Mr. Saltoun, every time he met Racey, took special pains to 
ask his puncher how much twice six times two hundred was. 
Then Mr. Saltoun, without waiting for an answer, would 
walk off slapping his leg and cackling with laughter. Even 
Tom Loudon was beginning to take the view that perhaps 
his father-in-law was in the right, after all. 

“You been here near two months now, Racey,” he had 
said that very morning, “and they ain’t anything happened 
yet.” 

“I’ve got four months to go,” Racey had replied with a 
placidity he did not feel. 

Now as he rode, his eyes closely scanning the various 
places in the landscape providing good cover for possible 
bushwhackers, he recalled what Loudon had said. 

“I’ll show him all the happenstances he wants to see be- 
fore I’m through,” he said, aloud. “Something’s gonna 
happen. Something’s got to happen. Jack iftrpe won’t 
let this slide. Not by a jugful.” 

The words were confident enough, but they were words 
that he had been in the habit of repeating to himself nearly 
every day for some time. Perhaps they had lost some of 
their force. Perhaps 

“Twelve hundred dollars,” mused Racey. “And the 
same for Swing. Six months’ work for ^Hell, it can’t turn 


THE BAH S 


157 


out different! I know it can’t. We’ll show ’em all yet, 
won’t we, Cuter old settler.?” 

Cuter old settler waggled his ears. He was a companion- 
able horse, never kicked human beings, and bucked but 
; seldom. 

“Yep,” continued Racey, sitting back against the 
I cantle, “she’s a long creek that don’t bend some’ers or 
I other.” 

And then the creek that was his flow of thought shot round 
a bend into the broad and sparkling reaches of a much 
pleasanter subject than the one that had to do with Harpes 
and Tweezys and Joneses. After a time he came to where 
the pleasanter subject, on her knees, was weeding among 
the flowers that grew tidily round Moccasin Spring. Baby- 
blue-eyes, low and lovely, cuddled down between tall colum- 
bines and orange wall-flowers. Side by side with the pink 
geranium of old-fashioned gardens the wild geranium nodded 
its lavender blooms in perfect harmony. 

The subject, black-haired Molly Dale, rested the point of 
her hand-fork between two rows of ragged sailors and 
Johnny-jump-ups and lifted a pair of the clearest, softest 
blue eyes in the world in greeting to Racey Dawson. 

“This is a fine time for you to be traipsing in,” she told him, 
with a smile that revealed a deep dimple in each cheek. “I 
thought you promised to help me weed my garden to-day.” 

“I did,” he returned, humbly, dismounting and sliding 
the reins over Cuter’s neck and head, “ but you know how it 
is Sunday mornin’s, Molly. There’s a lot to do round the 
ranch sometimes. Now, this mornin’ ” 

“I’ll bet,” she interrupted, smoothing out the smile and 
frowning as severely as she was able. “I’d just tell a man 
that, I would. I would, indeed. I’m sure it must have taken 
you at least half-an-hour to shine those boots. Half-an- 
hour! More likely an hour. Why, I can see my face in 
them.” 


158 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“And a very pretty face, too,” said Racey, rising to the 
occasion. “ If I owned that face I’d never stop looking at it 

myself. I mean ” He floundered, aghast at his own 

temerity. 

But the lady smiled. “That’ll do,” she cautioned him. 
“Don’t try to flirt with me. I won’t have it.” 

“I ain’t ” he began, and stopped. 

Molly Dale continued to look at him inquiringly. But as 
he gave no evidence of completing the sentence, she lowered 
her gaze and resumed her weeding. Racey thought to have 
glimpsed a disappointed look in her eyes as she dropped her 
chin, but he could not be certain. Probably he had been 
mistaken. Why should she be disappointed? Why, in- 
deed? 

“Start in on that bed, Racey,” she directed, nodding her 
head toward the columbines and wall-flowers. “There’s 
some of that miserable pusley inching in on the baby-blue- 
eyes and they’re such tiny things it doesn’t take much to 
kill them. And Lord knows I had a hard enough job per- 
suading ’em to grow in the first place.” 

“Wild things never cotton to living inside a fence,” he told 
her. “They’re like Injuns thataway — put ’em in a house 
and they don’t do so well.” 

“Shucks, look at the Rainbow.” 

“Half-breed. There’s the difference, and besides the 
Rainbow ain’t lived in a house since she left the convent. 
She lives in a tepee same as her uncle and aunties.” 

“I don’t care,” defended Molly, straightening on her knees 
to survey her garden. “Every single plant in my garden 
except the pink geraniums is wild. Look at those thimble- 
berry bushes round the spring, and the blue camass along 
the brook, and the squaw bushes round the house, and the 
squaw grass and pussy paws back of the clothes-lines. Some 
I transplanted, the rest I grew from seeds. And where will 
you find a better-looking garden? ” 


THE BAR S 159 

Racey sagged back on his heels and stared critically about 
him. 

“Yeah,” he drawled, nodding a slow head, “they do look 
pretty good. Got to give you lots of credit. But those 
squaw bushes now ” He broke off, grinning. 

“Oh, of course, you provoking thing!” cried she, irately. 
“Might know you’d pick on those squaw bushes. It 
is a mite too shady for ’em where they are, but still they’re 

doing pretty well, considering. I’m satisfied What’s 

that?” 

“That” was a horseman appearing suddenly among the 
cottonwoods that belted with a scattering grove the garden 
and the spring. The horseman was Lanpher, manager of 
the 88 ranch. He was followed by another rider, a lean,, 
swarthy individual with a smooth-shaven, saturnine face. 
Racey knew the latter by sight and reputation. The man 
was one Skeel and rejoiced in the nick-name of “Alicran.”^ 
The furtive scorpion whose sting is death is not indigenous 
to the territory, but Mr. Skeel had gained the appellation in 
New Mexico, a region where the tail-bearing insect may be 
found, and when the man left the Border for the Border’s good 
the name left with him. 

“Oh, look out! The bushes! The bushes! Don’t trample 
my thimble-berries!” 

But Lanpher, heeding not at all Molly’s cries of warning,, 
spurred his sweating horse through the thimble-berry growth, 
breaking down three shrubs, and splashed cat-a-corneredly 
across the spring, the brook, and several rows of fiowers. 

The garden looked as if a miniature cyclone had passed 
that way. 

Midway across the garden Lanpher’s horse halted — ^halted 
because a flying figure in chaps had appeared from nowhere 
and seized it by the rein. But the horse did more than halt. 
In obedience to a powerful jerk administered by the man in 
chaps the horse pivoted on its forelegs and slid its rider out 


160 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


of the saddle and deposited him a-sprawl and face downward 
among the flowers. 

Lanpher arose, snarling, to face a levelled sixshooter. It 
did not signify that Racey had not drawn the weapon. He 
was perfectly capable of shooting through the bottom of his 
holster and Lanpher knew it. And Racey knew that he 
knew it. 

“Get out of this garden!” ordered Racey. “Take yore 
friend with you,” he added, tossing the horse’s bridle to 
Lanpher. “And if I were you I’d walk a heap careful be- 
tween the rows. I just wouldn’t go a-busting any more of 
these posies.” 

Lanpher went. He went carefully. He was followed 
quite as carefully by Racey Dawson. 

When Lanpher was free of the neat rows he looked up 
venomously into the face of Alicran Skeel who had meticu- 
lously ridden round the garden. 

“I was wondering where you was,” Lanpher remarked with 
deep meaning. 

“I ain’t rooting up nobody’s gyarden,” Alicran returned, 
cheerfully. “And don’t wonder too hard. Might strain 
yore intellect or something. I’ll always be where I aim to 
be — always. You done scratched yore face, Lanpher.” 

Lanpher turned from Alicran Skeel and spat upon the 
ground. 

“Alicran,” said Racey, holding his alert attitude, “the 
first false move you make Lanpher gets it.” 

“I ain’t makin’ a move,” said Alicran, thumbs hooked in 
the armholes of his vest. “I got plenty to do minding my 
own business.” 

“Huh?” Thus the sceptical Racey, who did not trust Mr. 
Skeel as far as he could throw a horse by the tail. 

“Shucks,” said Alicran, out of deference to the lady, “you 
don’t believe me.” 

“ Shore I do,” asserted Racey, “ Shore, you bet you. I 


THE BAR S 


161 


Careful^ Lanpher ! I can talk to somebody else and watch 
you at the same time!” 

“If Alicran was worth a ” began Lanpher, furiously, 

and stopped. 

“You was gonna say — ^what.^” queried Alicran, softly. 

“Nothing,” said Lanpher, sulkily. “Put yore gun away,” 
he continued to Racey. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“Now that’s what I call downright generous of you, 
Lanpher,” Racey declared, warmly. “I’d shore hate to be 
hurt. I shore would. But if it’s alia same to you, I’ll keep 
my gun right where she is — if it’s alia same to you.” 

“That’ll do, Racey. Stop this rowing. I won’t have it.” 
It was Molly Dale pushing past Racey and standing with 
arms akimbo directly in front of his gun-muzzle. Racey let 
his gun and holster fall up-and-down, but he did not remove 
his hand from the gunbutt. 

“Who do you want here?” Molly inquired of Lanpher. 

Lanpher ’s rat-like features cracked into an ugly smile. 
“Is yore paw home?” he asked. 

“Father’s gone to Marysville.” 

“When’ll he be back?” 

“Day after to-morrow, I guess.” 

“Yeah, I kind of guess he’d want to spend the night so’s 
he could do business in the morning, huh?” The Lanpher 
smile grew even uglier. 

“He has some business to attend to in the morning, yes.” 

“I kind of thought he would. Yeah. You don’t happen 
to know the nature of his business, do you?” 

“His business is none of yours, and I’ll thank you to pick 
up your feet and clear out, the pair of you.” 

“Not so fast.” Lanpher spread deprecatory hands, and 
his smile became suddenly crooked. “I just come down to 
do yore paw a favour.” 

“ A favour? You? ” Blank unbelief was patent in Molly’s 
tone and expression. 


162 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“A favour. Me. You see, yore paw’s got a mortgage 
coming due on the tenth, and the reason yore paw went to 
Marysville was so he could be there bright and early to- 
morrow morning at the bank to renew the mortgage. Ain’t 
I right?” 

“You might be.” Molly’s face was now a mask of in- 
difference, but there was no indifference in her heart. There 
was cold fear. 

Racey’s expression was likewise indifferent. But there was 
no fear in his heart. There was anger, cold anger. For he 
had sensed what was coming. He knew that the previous 
winter had been a hard one on the Dale fortunes. They had 
lost most of their little bunch of cattle in a blizzard, and the 
roof of their stable had collapsed, killing two team horses and 
a riding pony. Racey had conjectured that Mr. Dale would 
% have been forced to borrow on mortgage to make a fresh start 
*.in thd spring. And at that time in the territory the legal 
rate was 12 per cent. Stiff? To be sure. But the security 
in those days was never gilt-edged — cattle were prone to die 
at inconvenient moments, and land was not worth what it 
was east of the Mississippi. 

“We’ll take it I’m right,” pursued Lanpher, lapping his 
tongue round the words as though they possessed taste and 
that taste pleasant. “And being that I’m right I’ll say yore 
paw could ’a’ saved himself the ride to Marysville by stayin’ 
to home.” 

Oh, Lanpher was the sort of man who, as a boy, was accus- 
tomed to thoroughly enjoy the pastime of pulling wings from 
living flies and drowning a helpless kitten by inches. 

Now he nodded his head and grinned anew, and put up a 
satisfied hand and rubbed his stubbly chin. Racey yearned 
to kick him.. It was shameful that Molly should be com- 
pelled to bandy words with this reptile. Racey stepped for- 
ward determinedly, and slid past Molly. 

Promptly she caught him by the sleeve. “Don’t mix in. 


THE BAR S 163 

Racey,” she commanded with set face. “It’s all right. It’s 
all right, I tell you.” 

“’Course it’s all right,” Lanpher hastened to say, more 
than a hint of worriment in his little black eyes. One could 
never be sure of these Bar S boys. They were uncertain 
propositions, every measly one of them. “Shore it’s all 
right,” went on the 88 manager. “I ain’t meaning no harm. 
Yo’re taking a lot for granted, Racey, a whole lot for granted.” 

“Nemmine what I’m taking for granted,” flung back 
Racey. “I get along with taking only what’s mine, any- 
way.” 

Which was equivalent to saying that Lanpher was a thief. 
But Lanpher overlooked the poorly veiled insult, and 
switched his gaze to Molly Dale. 

“I just rid over to say,” he told her, “that if yore paw is 
still set on renewing the mortgage when he comes back from * 
Marysville he’ll have to see me and Luke Tweezy-at the' 
88. We done bought that mortgage from the bank.” . 

Molly Dale said nothing. Racey felt that if he held his 
tongue another second he would incontinently burst. He 
sidestepped past the girl. 

“You’ve said yore li’l piece,” he told Lanpher, “and for a 
feller who was bellyaching so loud about keeping out of this 
deal it strikes me yo’re a-getting in good and deep — buying 
up mortgages and all. Dunno what I mean, huh? Yep, you 
do. Shore you do. Think back. Think way back, and it’ll 
come to you. Jack Harpe. You know him. Bossy-looking 
jigger, seemed like. Has he been a-bearing down on you 
lately, Lanpher? Mustn’t let him run you thataway. Bad 
business. Might be expensive. You can’t tell. You be 
careful, Lanpher. You go slow — a mite slow. Yep. Well, 
don’t lemme keep you. This way out.” 

He flicked a thumb westward, and stared at Lanpher with 
bright eyes. Lanpher ’s eyes dropped, lifted, then veered 
toward Alicran Skeel, that appreciative observer, who 


164 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

continued to sit his horse as good as gold and silent as a 
clam. 

Lanpher turned to his horse without another word, slid the 
reins over the animal’s neck and crossed them slackly. He 
stuck toe in stirrup and swung up. He looked down at 
Molly where she stood dumbly, her troubled eyes gazing at 
nothing and the fingers of one hand slowly plaiting and un- 
plaiting a corner of her apron. Lanpher opened his mouth as 
if to speak, but no words issued. For Racey had coughed a 
peremptory cough. 

Lanpher turned his horse’s head toward the creek. 

“Lookit here, Alicran,” the peevish Lanpher burst forth 
when he and his henchman had forded the creek and were 
riding westward, “whatsa matter with you, anyway.?” 

“With me?” Alicran tilted a questioning bead. “I 
dunno. I don’t feel a mite sick.” 

“ What do you think I hired you for? ” Heatedly. 

“Gawd he knows.” Business of rolling a cigarette. 

“ Yo’re supposed to be a two-legged man with a gun.” 

“Yeah?” Indifferently. 

“Yeah, but I got my doubts — ^now. Hell’s bells! Wasn’t 
you off to one side there when Racey pulled? Wasn’t you? ” 

“Wasn’t you listenin’ to what Racey said at the time? 
Wasn’t you?” 

“After! I mean after! His gun was back hugging his leg 
after the girl slid in between. What more of a chance didja 
want?” 

“So that’s it, huh?” 

“That’s — it.” Between the two words was a perceptible 
pause. 

“I ain’t shootin’ nobody in the back. I never have yet, 
and I ain’t beginnin’ now, not for you or any other damn man.” 

“Say ” began Lanpher, threateningly. 

Alicran Skeel turned a grim face on his employer so sud- 
denly and sharply that Lanpher almost dodged. 


THE BAR S 


165 


“Lookit here, Lanpher,” said he, quietly, “don’t you try 
to start nothin’ that I’ll have to finish. I know you from way 
back, you lizard, and outside of my regular work I ain’t tak- 
ing no orders from you. Don’t gimme any more of yore lip.” 

“Aw, I didn’t mean nothing, Alicran. You ain’t got any 
call to get het. I need you in the business.” 

“ Shore you do,” Alicran declared, contemptuously. “ You 
need me to do anything you ain’t got the nerve to do.” 

“ I got my duty to my company,” Lanpher bluffed lamely. 

“Duty bedam. You ain’t got the guts for a tough job, 
that’s whatsa matter.” _ , 

This was rubbing it in. Lanpher plucked at the loose 
strings of his courage, and managed to draw out a faintly 
responsive twang. “I’ll show you whether I got guts — 
he began. 

“Oh, look,” said Alicran. “See that wild currant bush.” 

To Lanpher it seemed that the sixshooter was barely out of 
the holster before it was back again. But there was a swirl 
of smoke adrift in the windless air and the topmost branch of 
a wild currant bush thirty feet distant had been that instant 
cut in two. 

“What was that you was gonna say?” Alicran prompted, 
softly. 

“I forget,” evaded Lanpher. “But they’s one thing you 
wanna remember, Alicran. It don’t pay to be squeamish. 
It comes high in the end usually. You’ll find, if you keep on 
being mushy thisaway, that you’ll have more’n you can 
swing at the finish.” 

“Is that so? You leave me do things my own way, you 
hear? Lemme tell you if I’d ’a’ knowed all what you was up 
to by coming to Dale’s this mornin’ I’d never have allowed 
it.” 

“Allowed it!” 

“Yes, allowed it, I said. Want me to spell it for you? 
You thumb-handed idjit, if you had any more sense you’d be 


166 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


a damfool. Don’t you know that in anything you do, not 
matter what, they’s no profit in unnecessary trimmings? 
Most always it’s the extra frills on a feller’s work that pushes 
the bridge over and lands him underneath with everything on 
top of him and the job to do again, if he’s lucky enough to be 
livin’ at the finish. And yore swashing through that girl’s 
gyarden was a heap unnecessary. It was a close squeak you 
wasn’t drilled by Racey Dawson. I wouldn’t have blamed 
him if he had let a little light in on yore darkened soul. Done 
it myself in his place. And yore rubbing in that mortgage 
deal was another unnecessary piece o’ damfoolishness. It 
only made Racey have it in for you more’n ever. And after 
acting like more kinds of a fool thataway in less time than 
anybody I ever see before, you sit up on yore hunkers and 
tell me I’ll have more’n I can swing at the finish. Say, you 
make me laugh ! Listen, Lanpher, for a feller that’s come out 
second best with the Bar S outfit as many times as you have 
it looks to me like you was crowdin’ Providence a heap close.” 

“That’s all right,” sulked Lanpher, then added, with a 
sudden flare of spite: “When I hired you as foreman I shore 
never expected to draw a skypilot full o’ sermons into the 
bargain.” 

“No?” drawled Alicran, looking hard at Lanpher. “I 
often wonder just what you did hire me for.” 

On which Lanpher made no comment. 

“Yeah,” resumed Alicran, the fish having failed to bite, 
“ I often wonder about that. Was it a foreman you wanted 
or a — ^gunman? And what did Racey mean about Jack 
Harpe a-bearing down on you so hard, huh?” 

“Nothing, nothing, nothing a-tall,” Lanpher replied, 
irritably. 

“If Racey didn’t mean nothing by it, what did yore eyes 
flip for and why didja shuflie yore feet?” 

“Whatell business is it of yores?” burst out the goaded 
manager. 


THE BAR S 167 

“None,” Alicran replied, calmly. “I was just wondering. 
I got a curiosity to know why, thassall.” 

“Then hogtie yore curiosity — or you’ll be gettin’ yore 
time. I’m free to admit I need you, like I said before, but I 
can do without you if I gotta.” 

“That’s just where yo’re dead wrong,” Alicran promptly 
contradicted. “You can’t do without me. Lanpher, I like 
the job of bein’ yore foreman. I like it so well that if you 
was to fire me I dunno what I wouldn’t do. You know, 
Lanpher, a man is a whole lot bigger target than the branch 
of a wild currant bush.” 

Frankly speculative, the eyes of Alicran travelled up and 
down the spare frame of the 88 manager. Which gave 
Lanpher furiously to think, as it were. 

“Wdiy,” said he, forcing a smile, “I guess we understand 
each other, Alicran.” 

“Shore we do,” said Alicran, cheerfully. “And don’t you 
forget it.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


SIGNED PAPER 

W HEN the two 88 men had departed Molly Dale 
continued to stand where she was for a space and 
stare dumbly at nothing. Racey, realizing well 
enough that her world had crashed to pieces about her, wished 
that she would burst into tears. A sobbing woman is easily 
comforted. It is simply necessary to pet her and keep on 
petting her till her grief is assuaged. But this hard stillness 
of Molly Dale’s gave Racey no opening. He could but 
gaze at her uncomfortably and shift his weight from one foot 
to the other. 

“That was a dirty trick of the Marysville bank.” Thus 
tentatively. 

It is doubtful whether Molly heard him. “Poor Father,” 
she said in a low tone. 

“Lookit here, Molly,” said Racey, struck by a bright idea, 
“I’ve got a li’l money I been saving. I — I want you should 
take it.” 

Molly continued to stare into the distance. 

“I’ve got some money ” he began again, thinking that 

Molly had not heard. 

But she turned her face toward him at that, and he saw 
that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. 

“Racey,” she said, with a slight catch in her voice, and 
laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Racey, you’re a dear, 
good boy. We — we’ll manage somehow. I mum-must tell 
Mother.” 

Abruptly she swimg away and left him. He watched her 
168 


SIGNED PAPER 


169 


cross the garden and enter the kitchen of the ranch-house. 
Then slowly, thoughtfully, he set to work repairing as 
best he could the ravages left in the garden by the hoofs of 
Lanpher’s horse. 

Came then Swing Tunstall on a paint pony and was 
moved to mirth at sight of Racey Dawson engaged in earthy 
labour. 

“See the pret-ty flowers,” mouthed Swing Tunstall, after 
the fashion of a child wrestling with the First Reader. “ Does 
Racey like pret-ty flow-ers ? Yeth, he’th crathy ab-out them. 
Ain’t he cute squattin’ there all same hoptoad and a-workin’ 
away two-handed.^ Only he ain’t a-workin’ now. He’s 
stopped workin’. He’s gettin’ all red in the face. He’s 
mad at Swing who never done him no harm nohow. Whatsa 
matter, Racey he added in his natural voice. “What bit 
you on the ear this fine an’ summer day?” 

Racey looked over his shoulder toward the house. Then 
he got to his feet and strode across the garden to where Swing 
Tunstall sat his horse. 

“Swing,” said he, quietly, “are you busy just now?” 

Swing, suspecting a catch somewhere, stared in swift sus- 
picion. “Why-uh-no,” was his cautious reply. 

“Then go off some’ers and die.” 

Without waiting for Swing’s possible comment Racey 
turned his back on his friend and walked unhurriedly to his 
horse Cuter. Swing slouched sidewise in the saddle and 
watched him go. 

He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled luxuriously. And 
all without removing his gaze from Racey’s back. He 
watched while Racey flung the reins crosswise over Cuter’s 
neck, mounted, and rode down into the creek. When he saw 
that Racey, after allowing Cuter to drink nearly all he 
wanted, rode on across the creek and up the farther bank. 
Swing’s brow became corrugated with a puzzled frown. 

“ He means business,” muttered Swing. “ I ain’t seen that 


170 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


look on his face for some time. I wonder what did happen 
this morning.” 

His eyes still fixed on the dwindling westward moving 
object that was Racey Dawson and his horse, he smoked his 
cigarette to a butt. Then he picked up his reins, found his 
stirrups, and rode away. 

Racey Dawson, bound for the 88 ranch-house, did not 
smoke. He did not feel like it. He did not feel like doing 
anything but facing Lanpher. What he would be moved to 
do while facing Lanpher he was not sure. Time enough to 
cross that bridge when the crucial moment should 
arrive. He knew what he wanted to do, but he knew, too, 
that he could not do it unless Lanpher made the first 
break. Otherwise it would be murder, and Racey was no 
murderer. 

“He’ll back down if he can, the snake,” Racey said aloud. 
“Amd he’ll be shore to slick and slime round till all’s blue. 
Damn him, riding over those fiowers of hers!” 

Racey did not hurry. He had no desire to come up with 
Lanpher on the open range. It would be better to meet the 
man at his own ranch-house — where there were apt to be 
plenty of witnesses. Racey realized perfectly that he might 
need a witness, several witnesses, before the sunset. He 
hoped that all the boys of the 88 outfit would be at the 
ranch. He hoped that Luke Tweezy would be there, too. 
Lanpher and Tweezy together, the pups. 

“Fat Jakey Pooley’s li’l playmates,” he muttered and 
swore again — heartily. 

He understood now the true reason for Jack Harpe’s lack 
of activity. This purchasing by Lanpher and Tweezy of the 
Dale mortgage was the eminently safe and lawful plan of 
Jakey Pooley. In his letter Fat Jakey had written that it 
would take longer. And wasn’t it taking longer? It was. 
Racey thought he saw the plan in its entirety, and was in a 
boil accordingly. He would have been in considerably more 


SIGNED PAPER 171 

of a boil had he been blessed with the ability to read the 
future. 

When he rode in among the buildings of the 88 ranch his 
eyes were gratified by the sight of freckle-faced Bill Allen 
straddling a cracker-box in front of the bunkhouse and 
having his hair cut by Rod Rockwell. 

“That’s right,” Bill Allen was complaining, “whynell 
don’t you cut off the whole ear while yo’re about it?” 

“Aw, shut up,” said Rod Rockwell, “it was only the tip, 
and I didn’t go to cut it, anyway.” 

“I don’t giveadamn whether you went'to cut it or not, you 
cut it! I can feel the blood running down the back of my 
neck.” 

“That’s only sweat, you bellerin’ calf! Hold still, can’t 
you? Djuh want me to hurt you?” 

“You done have already,” snarled Bill Allen, fidgeting 
on his cracker-box. “You wait till I cut yore hair after. 
I’ll fix you. I’ll scalp you, you pot-walloper.” 

“That’s right. Bill,” said Racey, checking his horse beside 
the quarrelling pair. “Talk to him. Givem hell.” 

“ ’Lo, Racey,” grinned the two youngsters in unison. 

“Where did you rustle this hoss?” asked Bill Allen. 

“Nemmine where,” smiled Racey, for both Bill and Rod 
had been his friends in his 88 days and could therefore insult 
him with impunity. “I wouldn’t wanna put li’l boys in the 
way of temptation. Does the cook still spank him regular. 
Rod?” 

“Stab his hoss with the scissors. Rod,” begged Bill Allen. 
“Let’s see what for a rider Mr. Dawson is.” 

Racey pressed his off rein against his horse’s neck. The 
animal whirled on a nickel, and reared, hard held, after the 
first plunge. The flying pebbles plentifully showered the two 
punchers. Bill Allen swore heartily, for one of the pebbles 
had clipped his damaged ear. 

“You see what a good rider I am,” Racey said, sweetly. 


172 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ Can’t feaze me, nohow. Sit still, Bill, and lemme try can I 
jump the li’l hoss over you. Rod, do you mind movin’ back 
a yard?” 

“No,” said Bill Allen, decidedly, and picked up his cracker- 
box and retreated backward to the bunkhouse door. “No, 
you don’t play any such tricks as that on me. He’d just as 
soon try it as not, the idjit,” he added over his shoulder to 
Tile Stanton who was peering out to see what all the racket 
was about. 

“Let him try it,” Tile Stanton advised promptly. “If the 
cayuse does happen to hit yore head, it won’t hurt yore thick 
skull. G’on, Bill, be a sport.” 

“Be a sport yoreself,” returned Bill Allen, skipping into 
the bunkhouse. “Where’s the other scissors? I’ll finish 
this job myself.” 

Racey, left alone with Rod Rockwell, smiled slightly. 
“Bill ain’t got a sense of humour this mornin’,” he observed, 
softly. “He must ’a’ thought I meant it.” 

There was no answering smile on Rod’s features as he 
looked up at Racey Dawson. “Racey,” said he, laying a 
hand on the horse’s mane, “have you been to McFluke’s 
lately?” 

“I ain’t,” replied Racey, his smile fading out. 

“Then keep on stayin’ away.” 

“As bad as that?” 

“As bad as that.” 

“McFluke been talking?” was Racey ’s next question. 

“ If McFluke was the only one it would be a mighty short 
hoss to curry.” 

“Then there are others?” 

“Plenty.” Rod Rockwell gave a short, hard laugh. 

“All of Nebraska’s bunch, huh?” 

“All but Nebraska.” 

“How long has this been going on — this talking, I mean?” 

“Doc Cofl&n started it about a week ago. He told Windy 


SIGNED PAPER 


173 


Taylor of the Double Diamond A he was gonna ventilate yore 
good health some fine day. He wasn’t drunk, neither.” 

“Then he must have serious intentions.” 

“Somethin’ like that. Five of us heard him say it. 
Lookit, while I was at McFluke’s alone day before yesterday 
Doc and Peaches Austin and Honey Hoke was all three 
bellying the bar, and while I was tucking away my nosepaint 
they was mumbling to themselves how you was all kinds 
of a pup and would stand shoo tin’ any day.” 

“Mumblin’ loud enough for you to hear, huh?” 

“Naturally, or I wouldn’t ’a’ heard it.” 

“Then they wanted you to hear. Guess they know yo’re 
a friend of mine.” 

“Guess they do now,” Rod Rockwell said, grimly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, nothin’. I just talked to ’em a li’l bit.” 

“And you wasn’t shot? Didn’t they do anything?” 

“Hell, no,” Rod denied, disgustedly. “Kansas Casey 
come in just at the wrong time, and throwed down on the 
four of us and said he’d do all the shooting they was to be 
done. And when he went he took me with him. Said he’d 
arrest me if I didn’t go peaceable. Ain’t that just like 
Kansas?” 

“Wearing the star shore means a lot to him.” 

“Aw, since he’s been deputy he’s gotten too big for his 
boots. And Jake the same way. The country’s played out, 
that’s whatsa matter. Law and order, law and order, tiU a 
feller can’t turn round no more without failin’ into jail.” 

“She’s one lucky thing for you, cowboy,” said Racey, 
seriously, “that Kansas did come. Three of ’em! You 
had yore gall. Lookit here, next time you let ’em talk. 
Names don’t hurt less they’re said to a feller’s face.” 

“They knowed you was my friend,” said Rod, simply. 
“Anyway, you keep away from McFluke’s.” 

“Maybe I will take yore advice. It has its points of 


174 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


interest, as the feller said when he sat down on the porkum- 
pine. And speakin’ of porkumpines, have you seen Lanpher?” 

“Shore. Him and Alicran pulled in a hour ago. Guess 
he’s in the office — Lanpher.” 

“See anything of Tweezy lately.?” 

“Luke seems to be living with us lately'* 

“I never knowed him and Lanpher was good friends.?” 
Racey cast at a venture. 

“I didn’t either — till lately.” 

“Jack Harpe ever come out here.?” 

“Long-geared feller — supposed to have capital? Hangs 
out in Farewell? The one that Marie girl tried to down? 
Bo, he ain’t been here as I know of, but then he could easy 
drift in and out and me not know it.” 

Racey nodded. “Marie jump Jack again, do you know? ” 
he asked. 

“Damfino. Don’t guess so, though. I seen her pass him 
on Main Street, and she didn’t even look at him.” 

“I’ll bet he looked at her.” 

“You can gamble he did. He ain’t trustin’ her, not 
him. I wonder what was at the bottom of the fuss between 
him an’ her?” A sharp glance at Racey accompanied this 
remark. 

“I dunno,” yawned Racey. “They say Mr. Harpe has 
had a career both high, wide, and handsome.” 

“That’s what I’d call one too many,” grinned Rod Rock- 
well. 

“You can put down a bet the career has been one too many, 
too.” 

“Yeah?” said Rod, wondering what was coming next. 

“Yeah,” said Racey, nodding mysteriously, but dis- 
appointing his friend by immediately changing the subject. 
“Say, Rod, I’d take it as a favour if you and Tile and Bill 
would sort of freeze round the bunkhouse till after I’m 
through with Lanpher.” 


SIGNED PAPER 


175 


“Shore,” said Rod. “Tweezy’s in the office, too, I guess.” 

Racey nodded, and started his horse toward the office. 

He understood well enough that Rod and the other two 
punchers would not interfere in any way with him and what- 
ever acts he might be called upon to perform during his 
conversation with Lanpher. Loyal to the last cartridge and 
after whenever it was ranch business, none of the 88 punchers 
ever felt it incumbent upon him to go out of his way so 
far as Lanpher personally was concerned. The manager was 
not the man either to engender or to foster personal loyalty. 

At the open doorway of the office Racey dismounted. He 
dropped the reins over his horse’s head and walked to the 
doorway. There he stopped and looked in. He saw Lan- 
pher sitting behind his big homemade desk. Lanpher was 
watching him. At one side of the desk, on a chair tilted 
back against the wall, sat Luke Tweezy. Luke was chewing 
a straw. His eyes were half closed, but Racey detected their 
glitter. Luke Tweezy was not overlooking any bets at that 
moment. 

Racey stepped across the doorsill and halted just within 
the room. The thumb of his left hand was hooked in his 
belt. His right hand hung at his side. He was ready for 
action. 

“Lanpher,” said Racey without preliminary, “I want to 
serve notice on you here and now that if I catch you within 
one mile of Moccasin Spring you come a-shooting because I 
will.” 

Lanpher ’s hand remained motionless on the desktop. 
Then the man picked up a pencil and began to tap it on the 
wood. He licked his lips cat-fashion. 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” he asked. 

“You can take it she’s both,” Racey told him. 

“You hear that, Luke?” Lanpher turned to Luke Tweezy. 
“Threatenin’ my life, huh?” 

“Shore,” nodded Luke Tweezy. “Actionable, that is. 


176 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

Mustn’t threaten a man’s life, Racey. Against the law, you 
know.” 

Racey moved to one side and leaned his back comfortably 
against the wall. “Against the law, huh, Luke?” he said 
nervously. “Then I can be arrested?” 

“You can,” Luke Tweezy declared with evident relish. 
“That is, you can if Lanpher wants to make a complaint.” 

“You hear, Lanpher?” asked Racey, still more nervously. 
“You wanna make a complaint, huh?” 

Lanpher had not failed to note the nervousness of Racey’s 
tone. Now he licked his lips again. He felt quite cheerful 
of a sudden. It’ gave him a warm and pleasant feeling to 
think that Racey Dawson was to a certain degree in his 
power. Having licked his lips several times he rubbed his 
chin judicially and coughed, likewise judicially. 

“ Well, I dunno as I wanna make a complaint exactly,” he 
said, slowly. “But you wanna walk a chalkline round here, 
Racey. You got too much to say for a fact.” 

“ What do you think, Luke ? ” queried Racey. “ Have I got 
too much to say?” 

“You heard what Lanpher said,” replied the cautious 
Luke. 

“ Yep, I heard all right. ! just wanted to get yore opinion, 
because I ain’t through yet — through talking, I mean. What 
I was going to say is that I wouldn’t be particular about 
catching Lanpher round Moccasin Spring. If I only heard 
he’d been hanging round there it would be enough.” 

“Meaning you’ll drill him on suspicion?” 

“Meaning I’ll do just that.” 

“Now yo’re threatenin’ me again.” Thus Lanpher. 

“Takes you a long time to wake up, don’t it?” The 
nervousness had vanished from Racey’s voice. “Lanpher, 
you lousy skunk! Why don’t you pull? There’s a gun in 
that open drawer not six inches from your hand. Go after 
it, you hound-dog!” 


SIGNED PAPER 


177 


Lanpher was not inordinately brave. He would go out 
of his way to avoid an appeal to lethal weapons. But 
Racey’s words were more than he could stand. His hand 
jerked sidewise and down toward the sixshooter in the open 
drawer. 

Bang! Shooting from the hip Racey drove an accurate 
bullet through the manager’s right forearm. Lanpher 
; grunted and gurgled with pain. But he made no attempt to 
i seize his weapon with his left hand. 

Luke Tweezy picked himself up from the floor where he 
I had thrown himself a split second before the shot. Luke 
Tweezy ’s leathery face was mottled yellow with rage. 

“I’ll get you ten years for this!” he squalled, pointing a 
long arm at Racey. “You started this fight! You tried to 
murder him!” 

“Oh, say not so,” said Racey. “If I’d wanted to kill him 
I wouldn’t ’a’ plugged him in the arm, would 1 ? That 
wouldn’t ’a’ been sensible.” 

“You provoked this fraycas!” snarled Luke, disregarding 
Racey’s point in a true lawyer-like way. “You ” 

“Why, no, Luke, yo’re wrong, all wrong,” interrupted 
; Swing Tunstall, leaning over the windowsill at Tweezy’s back. 

“I seen the whole thing, I did, and I didn’t see Racey do any- 
; thing he shouldn’t. I could swear to it on the stand if I had 
I to,” he added, thoughtfully. 

Come then Rod Rockwell, Bill Allen, and Tile Stanton from 
the bunkhouse. None made any comment on the state of 
affairs. But while Rod fetched water in a basin. Bill Allen 
cut away the sleeve of his groaning employer, and made all 
ready. 

A few minutes later Alicran Skeel entered the office. “I 
thought I heard a gun,” he drawled, his calm eyes embracing 
everyone in the room. 

“That man!” bubbled Luke Tweezy, shaking his fist at 
Racey. “That man tried to kill Lanpher! I call upon you 


178 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


not to let him leave the premises until I can go to Farewell 
and swear out a warrant for his arrest.” 

“That man,” said Swing Tunstall, pointing a derisive finger 
at Luke Tweezy, “is a liar by the clock. I saw the whole 
thing. And all I gotta say is that Lanpher went after his 
gun first.” 

“I ain’t doubting yore word, Swing,” Alicran said, tact- 
fully, “but they seems to be a difference of opinion sort of, 
and ” 

“I say that Luke Tweezy is a damn liar,” reasserted Swing, 
“and they ain’t no difference of opinion about that.” 

“Well, of course, if Luke ” Alicran did not complete 

the sentence. 

“I am a lawyer,” Luke Tweezy explained, hurriedly. 
“I ain’t paying any attention to what his man says — 
now.” 

“Or any other time,” jibed Swing. 

“Any of you boys see this.?^” Alicran asked of his three 
punchers. 

“Hetried tokill me, I tell you!” Lanpher gritted through 
his teeth. “He didn’t gimme a chance!” 

“Any of you boys see it?” repeated Alicran, paying no 
attention to Lanpher. 

“How could we?” asked Rod Rockwell, glancing up from 
the bandaging of Lanpher’s arm. “We was all in the bunk- 
house.” 

“Then for the benefit of the gents who wasn’t here,” said 
Racey, smoothly, “ I don’t mind saying that I told Lanpher 
to go after his gun, and he did, and I did.” 

“He’s a liar,” gibbered Lanpher. “Alicran, ain’t you 
man enough to take care of Racey Dawson?” 

Alicran nodded composedly. “ I guess him and me would 
come to some kind of an agreement provided I was shore he 
needed taking care of. But I ain’t none shore he does. 
Looks like it was a even break to me — the word of you and 


SIGNED PAPER 179 

Luke against his and Swing’s. And what’s fairer than that 
I’d like to know?” 

“Alicran!” squalled Lanpher. “I’m telling you to ” 

“Yo’re all worked up, that’s whatsa matter,” Alicran 
assured him. “You don’t mean more’n half you say. You 
lie down now after Rod gets through with you and cool off — 
cool off considerable, I would. Do you a heap o’ good. 
Yeah.” 

“And when you get all well, Lanpher,” put in Racey, 
“will I still be a liar like you say?” 

Lanpher looked at Racey and looked away. His heated 
blood was cooling fast. His arm — Lord, how it hurt! He 
perceived that discretion was necessary to preserve the rest 
of his precious skin from future perforation. 

“I — I guess I was a li’l hasty,” he mumbled, his eyelids 
lowered. 

“Now that’s what I call right down handsome — ^for you,” 
drawled Racey. “Gawd knows I ain’t a hawg. I’m satis- 
fied. Luke, s’pose you and me walk out to the corral to- 
gether. I got a secret for yore pearly ear.” 

It was obvious that Luke Tweezy was of two minds. 
Racey grinned to see the other’s hesitation. 

“What you scared of, Luke?” he inquired. “It ain’t far 
to the corral, and you can ask Alicran to come outside and 
watch me while I’m talkin’ to you.” 

“I ain’t got any business with you,” denied Luke Tweezy. 

“Oh, yo’re mistaken, a heap mistaken. Yes, indeedy, you 
got business with me. But it ain’t my fault, Luke. I can’t 
help it. Of course, if you don’t wanna talk to me private 
like, I can reel her off in here. My thoughts were all of you 
and yore feelin’s, Luke, when I said the corral. I was shore 
you’d be happier there.” 

“I ain’t got a thing to hide, not a thing,” declared Luke 
Tweezy. “But if you want to we’ll go out to the corral.” 

They went out to the corral and Racey found a seat on an 


180 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


empty nailkeg. Luke Tweezy sat perforce on the hard- 
baked ground. He hunched up his legs, clasped his hands 
round his shins, and rested his sharp chin on his bony knees. 
His eyes were fixed on Racey. The latter seemed in no 
hurry to begin. He rolled a cigarette with irritating slow- 
ness. To force one’s opponent to wait is always good strategy. 

“Well,” said Luke Tweezy. 

“Is it?” smiled Racey. “Have it yore own way, if you 
like. Lookit, Luke, you buy a lot of scrip now and then, 
don’t you?” 

“ Shore,” nodded Luke. 

“Good big discount. I’ll bet.” 

“Why not? I ain’t in business for my health. They’s 
no law ” 

“Of course there ain’t. And yore mortgages, Luke. Do a 
good business in mortgages, don’t you?” 

“So-so.” 

“This mortgage of Old Man Dale’s now — ^you figurin’ on 
foreclosin’ if he can’t pay?” 

“Whadda you know about Dale’s mortgage?” 

“I heard Lanpher yawpin’ about it. He talks too loud 
sometimes, don’t he? You gonna foreclose on him, I suppose?” 

“Like that!” Luke Tweezy snapped his teeth together 
with a click. 

“But foreclosing takes time. You can’t sell a man up the 
minute his mortgage is due. There’s got to be notices in the 
papers and the like of that. Suppose now he gets to borrow 
the money some’ers before the sale? He’ll have plenty of 
time to look round.” 

“Who’d lend him money?” 

“Old Salt would. He’s tight, but he’d rather have Dale 
at Moccasin Spring than someone else, and he’d lend Dale 
money rather than have him drove out.” 

“ Shucks, he wouldn’t lend him a dime. I know Old Salt. 
Don’t fret, we’ll foreclose when we get ready.” 


SIGNED PAPER 


181 


“I ain’t fretting,” said Racey. “You’ll foreclose, huh? 
Aw right. I just wanted to be shore. You can go now, 
Luke.” 

Thus dismissed Tweezy rose to his feet and glared down at 
Racey Dawson. His little eyes shon^with spite. 

“Say it,” urged Racey. “You’ll bust if you don’t.” 

But Luke Tweezy did not say it. He knew better. With- 
out a word he returned to the house. 

“They ain’t going to foreclose, that’s a cinch,” said Racey 
when the ponies were fox-trotting toward Soogan Creek and 
the Bar S range five minutes later. “ Luke’s telling me they 
were proves they ain’t.” 

“Shore,” acquiesced Swing, “but what are they gonna 
do?” 

“I ain’t figured that out yet.” 

“You mean you dunno. That’s the size of it.” 

“How’d you happen to be at that window so providential 
this mornin’?” Racey queried, hurriedly. 

“How’d you s’pose? Don’t you guess I’d know they was 
something up from the nice, kind way you said so-long to me 
back there at the Dales’? Huh? ’Course I did — I ain’t no 
fool. You’d oughta had sense enough to take me along in the 
first place instead of makin’ me trail you miles an’ miles. 
And where would you ’a’ been if I hadn’t come siftin’ along, 
I’d like to know? Might know you’d need a witness. Them 
two jiggers put together could easy make you lots of trouble. 
What was you thinking of, anyhow, Racey?” 

“How could I tell they were both gonna be together? Be- 
sides, three of the 88 boys were over in the bunkhouse. I 
v/as counting on them.” 

“Over in the bunkhouse, huh? A lot of good they’d done 
you there. A lot of good. Oh, yo’re bright, Racey. I’d 
tell a man that, I would.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE SHOWDOWN 

R ACEY, walking suddenly round the corner of the Dale 
stable, came upon Mr. Dale tilting a bottle toward the 
^ sky. The business end of the bottle was inserted 
between Mr. Dale’s lips. His Adam’s apple slid gravely up 
and down. He did not see Racey Dawson. 

“Howdy,” said the puncher. 

Mr. Dale removed the bottle, whirled, and thrust the bottle 
behind him. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, blinking, and slowly producing the 
bottle. “Huh-have one on me.” 

“Not to-day,” refused Racey, shaking his head. “I got 
a misery in my stummick. Doctor won’t lemme drink any.” 

“Yeah?” Thus Mr. Dale with interest. Then, again 
proffering the liquor, he said: “This here’s fine for the 
misery. Better have a snooter.” 

“No, I guess not.” 

“Well, I will,” averred Mr. Dale and downed three 
swallows rapidly. “Yeah,” he continued, driving in the 
cork with the heel of his hand, “a feller needs a drink now and 
then.” 

“Helps him stand off trouble, don’t it?” Racey hazarded, 
sympathetically, perceiving an opening. 

“Shore does,” answered Mr. Dale. “I should say so. 
Dunno who’d oughta know that better’n I do. Trouble, 
Racey — ^well, say, I’m just made of trouble I am.” 

“Aw, it ain’t as bad as that,” encouraged Racey. 

“Yes, it is, too,” contradicted the other. “I got more 
182 


THE SHOWDOWN 


183 


trouble on my hands than a rat-tailed boss tied short in fly- 
time. Trouble — nothing but.” 

“Nothing is as bad as it looks.” 

“Heaps of times she’s worse.” 

“ I’m yore friend. You know me. If I can help you ” 

“Nobody can help me. I dunno what to do, Racey.” 

“Well, you know best, I expect, but I’ve always found if 
I talk over with somebody else anythin’ that bothers me it 
don’t seem to stick up half so big.” 

Mr. Dale sank down upon one run-over heel and stared 
blearily off across the flats. The bottle in his hip-pocket 
made a pronounced bulge under the cloth. 

“I dunno what to do, Racey,” he said, looking up sidewise 
at Racey where he stood in front of him, his hands in his 
pockets and his hat on the back of his head. “I owe a lot of 
money. I dunno how I’m gonna pay it, and I’m worried.” 

“Let the other feller do the worrying,” suggested Racey. 

“ I wish I could,” said Mr. Dale, drearily. “ I wish I could.” 

“Why don’t you, then?” 

“He’ll foreclose — they’ll foreclose, I mean.” 

“Aw, maybe not.” 

“Yeah, they will. I know ’em! ’em! They’d have 

the shirt off my back if they could. You see, Racey, 
she’s thisaway : I borrowed five thousand dollars from the 
Marysville bank, on a mortgage, and there they went and 
sold the mortgage to Lanpher of the 88 and Luke Tweezy. 
And there’s the rub, Racey. The bank would ’a’ renewed 
all right, but you can put down a bet and go the limit that 
Lanpher and Tweezy won’t. I done asked ’em.” 

“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” said Racey, 
soberly. He had been thinking that the mortgage would not 
have been above two thousand at the outside. But five 
thousand ! What in Sam Hill had old Dale done with the 
money? In the next breath Dale answered the unspoken 
question. 


184 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“I needed the money,” he said in a low voice, his eyes 
lowered, “and — and I had bad luck with it.” 

“Yeah, I know, the cattle dying and all.” 

“Cattle! What cattle.^” Mr. Dale stared blankly at 
Racey. “Oh, them! Hell, they didn’t have nothin’ to do 
with it, them cattle didn’t. I’d worked out a system, Racey — 
a system to beat roulette, and I was shore it was all right. 
By Gawd, it was all right! They was nothin’ wrong 
with that system. But I had bad luck. I had most awful 
bad luck.” 

“And the system, I take it, didn’t work.?” 

“It didn’t — against my bad luck.” 

Mr. Dale again dropped his eyes, and Racey stared down 
at the hump-shouldered old figure with something akin to pity 
in his gaze. Certainly he was sorry for him. He was not in 
the least scornful despite the fact that it did not seem pos- 
sible that any sensible man could be such a fool. A system 
— a system to beat roulette! And bad luck! The drably 
ancient and moth-eaten story with which every unsuccessful 
gambler seeks to establish an alibi. 

“Whose wheel was it?” said Racey. 

“Lacey’s at Marysville.” 

“In the back room of the Sweet Dreams, huh? An’ 
there’s nothing crooked about Lacey’s wheel, either. It’s 
as square as Lacey himself.” 

“Lacey’s wasn’t the only wheel. They was McFluke’s, 
too.” 

So McFluke had a wheel, had he? This was news to Racey 
Dawson. 

“How long has McFluke been runnin’ a wheel?” inquired 
Racey. 

“Quite a while,” was the vague reply. 

“A year?” 

“Maybe longer. I dunno.” 

“Funny it never got round.” 


THE SHOWDOWN 185 

“It was a private wheel. Only for his friends. Nothin’ 
public about it.” 

“Who used to play it besides you?” persisted Racey, hang- 
ing to his subject like a bull-pup to a tramp’s trousers. 

Mr. Dale wrinkled his forehead. “Besides me? Lessee 
now. They were Doc Coffin, Nebraska Jones, Honey Hoke, 
and Punch-the-breeze Thompson.” 

“Nobody else?” 

“Aw, Calloway and Norton and that bunch,” Mr. Dale 
said, shamefacedly. 

Racey nodded his head slowly. A crooked wheel. Of 
course it was crooked. Why not? That Dale, Calloway, 
Norton, and a few other gentlemen of the neighbourhood were 
under their wives’ thumbs to such a degree that they did not 
dare to gamble openly was a matter of common knowledge. 
What more natural than that someone should provide them 
with a private gambling place? With such cappers as Ne- 
braska and his gang, losers would not feel equal to making 
much of an outcry. It must be a paying occupation for 
McFluke, Nebraska, or whoever was at the bottom of the 
business. 

Racey nodded again and squatted down on his heels. He 
I picked up a stick and squinted along its length. 

“None of my business, of course,” he said, casually, “but 
would you mind telling me how much you lost to McFluke?” 

“About seven thousand.” 

Racey looked up at the sky. Seven thousand dollars. 
The full amount of the mortgage and two thousand more. 
And McFluke had it all. 

“You see,” said Mr. Dale, dolefully. “I began to make 
money after I’d been here awhile and my health come back. 
Yeah, I made money all right, all right.” He pushed back 
his hat and scratched a grizzled head. “I had luck,” he 
added. “But you wasn’t round here then. You’d gone to 
the Bend.” 


186 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Yep, I’d gone to the Bend, damitall, and it shore seems 
like I’d stayed there too long. Didn’t you ever guess Mc- 
Fluke’s wheel wasn’t straight.?*” 

“Aw, it was so straight. Mac wouldn’t cheat nobody. 
Yo’re — ^yo’re mistaken, Racey.” 

“I am, huh? Likell I’m mistaken. I know what I’m 
talking about. I tell you flat, McFluke is so crooked he could 
swallow a nail and spit out a corkscrew. And he’s got that 
wheel trained. You just bet he has. Look under the table 
and see what he’s doing with his feet or his knees. My Gawd, 
Dale, didn’t you know they make roulette wheels with a brake 
like a wagon?” 

“I — I’ve heard of ’em,” Mr. Dale nodded, hesitatingly. 
“But I’m shore Mac’s is on the level.” 

“And you bet seven thousand dollars it was on the level, 
didn’t you?” 

“But ” 

“But where did you come out? Do you think you ever got 
a show for yore money?” 

“Oh, I won a bet now and then,” defended Mr. Dale. 

“Small ones, shore. Naturally he has to let you win now 
and then to sort of toll you along and keep you good-natured. 
You won now and then, yep. But did you ever win when 
you had a sizable stake up?” 

Mr. Dale shook his head. “No, come to think of it, I 
don’t beheve I ever did.” 

“I knowed you didn’t,” exclaimed Racey, triumphantly. 
“I tell you that wheel is crooked.” 

“Not so loud,” cautioned Mr. Dale. “They’ll hear you 
in the house.” 

“Don’t they know nothing about it a-tall?” probed Racey. 

“They know about the five-thousand-dollar mortgage,” 
admitted Dale, reluctantly. 

Racey rubbed his chin. “I was here when Molly found it 
out.” 


THE SHOWDOWN 


187 


Mr. Dale nodded miserably. He was too utterly wretched 
to resent Racey’s interference with his affairs. “She — she 
told me,” he said. 

“Don’t they know about the other two thousand you lost 
to McFluke, or what you dropped at Lacey’s?” 

Mr. Dale shook his head. “I never told ’em. I — I only 
lost fifteen or sixteen hundred at Lacey’s, anyway.” 

“Fifteen or sixteen hundred is a whole lot when you ain’t 
got it,” said the direct and brutal Racey. “Instead of seven 
thousand then, you done lost eighty-five or eighty-six hun- 
dred. I swear I don’t see how you managed to lose all that 
and yore family not find it out.” 

“I kept quiet.” 

“I guess you did keep quiet. Gawd, yes! Lookit, Dale, 
I’m going to help you out of this. But you’ll have to start 
fresh. You’ve got to go in and make a clean breast to the 
family about where the other thirty-six hundred over and 
above the five thousand went.” 

Mr. Dale’s jaw dropped. “ I — I never even told ’em where 
the five thousand went.” 

“Huh? I thought you said they knew about the mortgage 
— after Molly found it out.” 

“They knew about the mortgage all right enough, but they 
dunno where the money went. Yuh see, Racey, I — I done 
told ’em I lost it in a land deal.” 

“You did! Aw right, you go right in and tell ’em the 
truth, all of it, every last smidgen.” 

“I cuc-can’t!” protested Mr. Dale. “I ain’t got the 
heart!” 

“You ain’t got the nerve, you mean. You go on and tell 
’em. Dale, an’ I’ll fix it up for you, but I won’t fix up any- 
thing for you if you ain’t gonna play square with those 
women from now on. And you can’t play square with ’em 
without you begin by telling ’em the truth.” 

“How you gonna help me out?” temporized Mr. Dale. 


188 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

‘T’m goin’ to Old Salt, that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll 
fix it up with him to lend you the money.” 

Mr. Dale shook his head. “He won’t do it.” | 

“ Shore he’ll do it. You don’t think he’s gonna have some- | 
body else come in here in yore place, do you? Not much he | 
ain’t. He’ll lend you the money and glad to.” 

“I done already asked him, an’ he wouldn’t.” 

“‘You asked him, and he wouldn’t?’” repeated Racey, j 
stupidly.' “When did you ask him?” 

“About two months ago — soon as ever I found out I i 
wouldn’t be able to pay off the mortgage.” j 

“And he wouldn’t lend it to you? I don’t understand it, 
damfi do. It ain’t reasonable. Lookit here, did you tell him ! 
what you wanted it for? Did you tell him about the mort- 
gage?” 

“Non-no,” said Mr. Dale in a still, small voice. “I 
didn’t.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Because I was afraid he’d take advantage of me. I was 
afraid he’d fix it so as to take my ranch away from me if he 
knowed how bad and what for I needed it.” 

“But ain’t that exactly what the Marysville bank could 
’a’ done if it wanted?” demanded Racey, aghast at the Dale 
obtuseness. 

“Yeah, but I had hopes of standing off the bank, and ” 

“But you ain’t got any hope of standing off Lanpher and 
Tweezy. Nary a hope. Now lookit. Old Salt is yore only 
chance round here. Of course, he’d fix it to take away yore 
ranch if he could. That’s his business. And it’s yore busi- 
ness to see he don’t. An’ it’s my business to help you see he i 
don’t. Suppose now I go to Old Salt and get him to lend 
you the money on a mortgage, say a ten-year mortgage?” 

“But I got one mortgage on the place now. He’d never] 
take a second mortgage.” ^ ^ 

“Naw, naw, that ain’t gonna be the way of it a-tall. It 


THE SHOWDOWN 189 

will be fixed so’s Old Salt’s mortgage won’t go into effect till 
the first one’s paid off.” 

“But then till the first one is paid off — maybe it will be 
three-four days — Old Salt’s five thousand will be unsecured.” 

“It won’t be unsecured. It won’t go out of Saltoun’s 
hands. He’ll pay off the mortgage himself.” 

“Do you think you can get a easy rate from Old Salt.?^” 
asked Dale, the light of a new hope dawning in his faded old 
I eyes. “ It’s a awful tax on a feller paying the full legal rate.” 

I “ We’ll have to take what we can get, but I’ll do my best to 
I tone it down. Sometimes a man will take less if he has 
I another object in view besides the interest. And you bet 
I Old Salt will have a plenty big object in view in keeping out 
i Lanpher and Tweezy. Money ain’t tight now, anyway. I’ll 
I do the best I can for you. Don’t you fret. You go on in now 
I and square up with the women and I’ll slide out to the Bar 
; S instanter.” 

Mr. Dale, the poor old man, laid a hand on Racey’s strong 
young forearm. “I’ll tell ’em,” he said. “I’ll tell ’em. 
You — ^you fix it up with Old Salt.” 

Abruptly he turned away and hobbled hurriedly around 
i the corner of the barn. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE SHOOTING 

R ACEY DAWSON, riding back to Moccasin Spring, 
was in a warm and pleasant frame of mind. With him 
rode Old Salt, and with Old Salt rode Old Salt’s check 
book. Racey had, after much argument and persuasion, 
made excellent arrangements with Mr. Saltoun. The 
latter, anxious though he was to own the Dale place himself, 
had agreed to pay off the mortgage bought by Lanpher and 
Tweezy and take in return a 6 per cent, mortgage for ten 
years. No wonder Racey was pleased with himself. He had 
a right to be. 

As they crossed the Marysville and Farewell trail Racey’s 
horse picked up a fortuitous stone. Racey dismounted. 
Mr. Saltoun, slouching comfortably back against his cantle, 
looked doubtfully down at Racey where he stood humped 
over, the horse’s hoof between his knees, tapping with a knife 
handle at the lodged stone. 

“A ten-year mortgage is a long one, kind of,” he said, slowly. 
“I thought we’d settled all that.” Racey lifted a quick 
head. 

“Shore we’ve done settled it,” Mr. Saltoun acquiesced, 
promptly. “That’s all right. I’m going through with 
my part of it. Gotta do it. Nothing else to do. I was 
just a-thinking, that’s all.” 

Racey merely grunted. He resumed his tapping. 

“Alla same,” Mr. Saltoun said, suddenly, “I don’t believe 
this Jack Harpe feller had anything to do with this mortgage 
deal, Racey.” 


190 


THE SHOOTING 


191 


“Don’t you?” 

“No, I don’t. You can’t make me believe they’s any coon 
in that tree. If they was why ain’t Jack Harpe done some- 
thing before this? Tell me that. Why ain’t he?” 

“Damfino.” 

“Shore you don’t. You was mistaken, Racey. Badly 
mistaken. Yore judgment was out by a mile. She’s all 
just Luke Tweezy and that lousy skunk of a Lanpher trying 
to act spotty. No more than that.” 

“Well, ain’t that enough?” 

“Shore, but ” 

“But nothing. Where’d you be if I hadn’t found out 
about it, huh? Wouldn’t you look nice feedin’ other folks’ 
cows on yore grass?” 

“Alla same, they wouldn’t ’a’ been Jack Harpe’s cows.” 

“Which is all you know about it. You never would take 
warning, and you know it. How about the time when 
Blakely was the 88 manager, and they were rustling yore 
cattle so fast it made a quarter-hoss racing full split look 
slow?” 

“Well, but ” interrupted Mr. Saltoun, beginning to 

fidget with his reins. 

“And the time Cutnose Canter tried to run off a whole 
herd of bosses on you?” Racey breezed on, warming to his 
subject. “You wouldn’t let Chuck warn you. Oh, no, not 
you. He didn’t know what he was talking about. No, he 
didn’t. And how did it turn out, huh? What did that li’l 
party cost you? Yeah, I would begin frizzling round if I was 
you. You’ll generally notice the feller who’s the last to laugh 
enjoys it the most. I’m that feller — me and Swing both.” 

“Aw, say ” 

“Yeah, me and Swing will be thanking you for a healthy 
big check apiece when our time-limit is up. Yes, indeedy, 
that’s us.” 

“Is that so? Is that so? You got another guess, Racey, 


192 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


and it’s me that will get the most out of that laugh. If it’s 
like I say, even if Lanpher and Tweezy are trying a game you 
don’t get paid a nickel if Jack Harpe and his cattle ain’t in on 
the deal. You done put in the Jack Harpe end of it yoreself . 
I heard you. So did Tom Loudon, and Swing, too. Jack 
Harpe. Yeah. He is the tune you was playing alia time. 
And up to now I can’t see that Jack Harpe has made a move, 
not a move.” 

“But ” 

“Lanpher and Tweezy wasn’t in the bet,” insisted Mr. 
Saltoun. “It was Jack Harpe, and you know it. ‘If Jack 
Harpe don’t start trying to get Dale’s ranch away from him 
and run cattle in on you inside of six months you don’t have 
to pay us.’ Them was yore very words, Racey. I got ’em 
wrote down all so careful. I know ’em by heart.” 

“I’ll bet you do,” Racey told him, heartily. “I’ll gamble 
you been studying those words in all yore spare time.” 

“It pays to be careful,” smiled Mr. Saltoun. “Always 
bear that in mind. I ain’t wanting to rub anything in, Racey, 
but if you’d been a mite more careful, just a mite more care- 
ful, you wouldn’t be out so much at the finish. Drinks are 
on you, cowboy. And when you stop to think that I’d ’a’ 
made the bet just the same if you’d wanted Lanpher and 
Tweezy in on it. Only you didn’t.” 

“Guess I must ’a’ overlooked ’em, huh?” grinned Racey. 
“Feller can’t think of everything, can he?” 

“I’m glad to see yo’re taking it thisaway,” approved Mr. 
Saltoun. “Working for six months for nothing don’t seem 
to bother you a- tall.” 

“I ain’t worked six months for nothing — ^yet,” pointed out 
Racey. “The six months ain’t up — ^yet. You wanna re- 
member, Salt, that a race ain’t over till the horses cross the 
line.” 

“You gotta prove Jack Harpe’s connection,” began Mr 
Saltoun. 


THE SHOOTING 193 

Racey topped his mount, but as the horse started he held 
him up. 

‘‘Lessee who’s coming,” he suggested, jerking his thumb 
over his shoulder. 

He and Mr. Saltoun both turned their heads. Someone 
was riding toward them along the trail from the direction of 
the Lazy River ford — Racey had caught the clatter of the 
horse’s hoofs on the rocks of a wash wherein the trail lay con- 
cealed. 

“Siftin’ right along,” said Mr. Saltoun. 

Racey nodded. Horse and rider slid into sight above the 
side of the wash and trotted toward them. 

“Looks like Punch-the-breeze Thompson,” said Mr. 
Saltoun. 

“It is Thompson,” confirmed Racey. “Didn’t it strike 
you he sort of hesitated a li’l bit when he first seen us — like a 
man would whose breakfast didn’t rest easy on his stomach, 
as you might say.” 

Mr. Saltoun nodded. “He did sway back on them lines 
at the top.” 

“And he ain’t boiling along quite as fast now as he was in 
the wash,” elaborated Racey. 

“I noticed that, too,” admitted Mr. Saltoun. 

They waited, barring the trail. Punch-the-breeze Thomp- 
son did not attempt to ride around them. He pulled up and 
nodded easily to the two men. 

“They’s been a fraycas down at McFluke’s,” Thompson 
said. 

“Fraycas?” Racey cocked an eyebrow. 

“Yeah — old Dale and a stranger.” 

Racey nodded. He knew with a great certainty what was 
coming next. “Anybody hurt?” he asked. 

“Old Dale.” 

“Bad?” 

“Killed.” 


194 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Racey nodded again. “Even break.^” 

“We don’t think so,” Thompson stated, frankly. 

“Who’s we?” queried Racey. 

“Oh, Austin, Honey Hoke, Doc Coffin, McFluke, Jack 
Harpe, Lanpher, and Luke Tweezy. We all just didn’t like 
the way the stranger went at it, so I’m going to Farewell after 
the sheriff.” 

“Yo’re holdin’ the stranger then, I take it?” put in Mr. 
Saltoun. 

“Well, no, not exactly,” replied Thompson. “He got 
away, that stranger did.” 

“And didn’t none of you make any try at stopping him 
a-tall?” demanded Racey. 

“Plenty,” Thompson replied with a stony face. “I took a 
shot at him myself just as he was hopping through the 
window. I missed.” 

“Yet they say yo’re a good snap shot, Thompson,” threw 
in Racey. 

“I am — most usual,” admitted Thompson. “But this 
time my hand must ’a’ shook or something.” 

“Yep,” concurred Racey, “I shore guess it must ’a’ shook 
or — something.” 

Thompson faced Racey. “ ‘Or something,’ ” he repeated, 
hardily. “Meaning?” 

“What I said,” replied Racey, calmly. “I never mean 
more’n I say — ever.” 

Thompson continued to regard Racey fixedly. Mr. Sal- 
toun was glad that he himself was two yards to the right, and 
he would not have objected to double the distance. 

Racey ’s hands were folded on the horn of his saddle. 
Thompson’s right hand hung at his side. Racey had told 
the truth when he spoke of Thompson as a good snap shot. 
He was all of that. And he was fairly quick on the draw as 
well. It would seem that, taking into consideration the 
position of Thompson’s right hand, that Thompson had a 


THE SHOOTING 


195 


shade the better of it. Racey thought so. But he hoped, 
nevertheless, by shooting through the bottom of his holster, 
to plant at least one bullet in Thompson before the latter 
killed him. 

The decision lay with Thompson. Would he elect to 
fight? Racey could almost see the thoughts at conflict be- 
I hind Thompson’s frontal bone. Mr. Saltoun, hoping against 
hope, sat tensely silent. Racey’s eyes held Thompson’s 
steadily. 

Slowly, inch by inch, Thompson’s right hand moved up- 
ward — and away from the gun butt. He gathered his reins in 
his left hand and with his hitherto menacing right he tilted his 
hat forward and began to scratch the back of his head. 

“If you don’t mean more’n you say,” offered Thompson, 
“you don’t mean much.” 

“Which is all the way you look at it,” said Racey. 

“And a damn good way, too,” nipped in Mr. Saltoun, 
hurriedly, inwardly cursing Racey for not letting well enough 
lalone. “What was the fight about, Thompson?” 

“Cards,” said Thompson, laconically, switching his eyes 
briefly to Mr. Saltoun ’s face. 

“And the stranger cold-decked him?” inquired Racey. 

“Something like that, but I can’t say for shore. I wasn’t 
playing with him. Doc Coffin was, and so was Honey Hoke 
and Peaches Austin. Peaches said he kind of had an idea the 
stranger dealt himself a card from the bottom just before 
old Dale started to crawl his hump. But Peaches ain’t shore 
about it. Seemin’ly old Dale is the only one was shore, and 
he’s dead.” 

“And yo’re going for the coroner, huh?” asked Racey. 

“I said so.” 

“But you didn’t say if anybody was chasing the stranger 
now. Are they?” 

“Shore,” was the prompt reply. “They all took out after 
him — all except McFluke, that is.” 


196 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Racey nodded. “I expect McFluke would want to stay 
with Dale,” he said, gently, “just as you’d want to go to Fare- 
well after the coroner. Yo’re shore it is the coroner, Thomp- 
son?” 

“Say, how many times do you want me to tell you?” 
demanded the badgered Thompson. “Of course it’s 
the coroner. In a case like this the coroner’s gotta be 
notified.” 

“I expect,” assented Racey. “I expect. But if yo’re 
really goin’ for the coroner, Thompson, what made you tell 
us when you first met us you were going for the sheriff? ” 

“Why,” said Thompson without a quiver, “I’m a-goin’ for 
him, too. I must ’a’ forgot to say so at first.” 

“Yeah, I guess you did.” Thus Racey, annoyed that 
Thompson had contrived to crawl through the fence. He 
had hoped that Thompson might be tempted to a demon- 
stration, for which potentiality he, Racey, had prepared by 
removing his right hand from the saddle horn. 

“It don’t always pay to forget, Thompson,” suggested 
Mr. Saltoun, coldly. 

“It don’t,” Thompson assented readily. “And I don’t — 
most always.” 

“Don’t stay here any longer on our account, Thompson,” 
said Racey. “You’ve told us about enough.” 

“Try and remember it,” Thompson bade him, and lifted 
his reins. 

“We will, and, on the other hand, don’t you forget yore 
sheriff and yore coroner.” 

“I won’t,” grinned Thompson and rode past and away. 

“He ain’t goin’ for the sheriff and the coroner any more’n 
I am,” declared Mr. Saltoun, disgustedly, turning in the 
saddle to gaze after the vanishing horseman. 

“Of course he ain’t!” almost barked Racey. “In this 
country fellers like Thompson don’t ride hellbent just to tell 
the sheriff and the coroner a feller has been killed. Murder 


THE SHOOTING 


197 


ain’t any such e-vent as all that. Unless,” he added, thought- 
fully, “Thompson is the stranger.” 

“You mean Thompson might ’a’ killed him.?” 

“I don’t think it would spoil his appetite any. You re- 
member how fast he was pelting along down in the wash, and 
how he slowed up after seeing us? A murderer would act 
just thataway.” 

Mr. Saltoun nodded. “A gent can’t do anything on guess- 
work,” he said, bromidically. “Facts are what count.” 

“You’ll find before we get to the bottom of this business,” 
observed Racey, sagely, “that guesswork is gonna lead us to 
a whole heap of facts.” 

“I hope so,” Mr. Saltoun said, uncomfortably conscious 
that the death of Dale might seriously complicate the lifting 
of the mortgage. 

Racey was no less uncomfortable, and for the same reason. 
He felt sure that the killing of Dale had been inspired in 
order to settle once for all the future of the Dale ranch. No 
wonder Luke Tweezy had been so positive in his assertion 
that Old Man Saltoun would not lend any money to Dale. 
The latter had been marked for death at the time. 

Despite the fact that Tweezy and Harpe were at last being 
seen together in public, thus indicating that the “deal,” to 
quote Pooley’s letter to Tweezy, had been “sprung,” Racey 
doubted that the murder formed part of Jacob Pooley’s 
“absolutely safe” plan for forcing out Dale. While in some 
ways the murder might be considered suflSciently safe, the 
method of it and the act itseK did not smack of Pooley’s 
handiwork. It was much more probable that the killing 
was the climax of Luke Tweezy’s original plan adhered to by 
the attorney and his friends against the advice and wishes 
of Jacob Pooley. 

“Guess we’d better go on to McFluke’s,” was Racey’s 
suggestion. 

They went. 


198 


THE HEAET OF THE RANGE 


“Looks like they got back mighty soon from chasing 
the stranger,” said Racey, when they came in sight of 
the place, eying the number of horses tied to the hitching- 
rail. 

“Maybe they got him quick,” Mr. Saltoun offered, sardon- 
ically. 

They rode on and added their horses to the tail-switching 
string in front of the saloon. Racey did not fail to note that 
none of the other horses gave any evidence of having been 
ridden either hard or lately. Which, in the face of Thomp- 
son’s assertion that the men he left behind had ridden in pur- 
suit of the murderer, seemed rather odd. Or perhaps it was 
not so odd, looking upon it from another angle. 

The saloon, when they had ridden up, had been quiet as 
the well-known grave. It remained equally silent when they 
entered. 

McFluke, behind the bar, wearing a black eye and a puffed 
nose, nodded to them civilly. In chairs ranged round the 
walls sat an assortment of men — Peaches Austin, Luke 
Tweezy, Jack Harpe, Doc Coffin, Honey Hoke, and Lanpher. 
The latter was nursing a slung right arm. They were all 
there, the men mentioned by name by Thompson as having 
been in the place when Dale was killed. 

“What is this, a graveyard meetin’.f*” asked Racey of 
McFluke, glancing from the assembled multitude to McFluke 
and smihng slightly. It was no part of wisdom, thought 
Racey, to let these men know of his encounter with Thomp- 
son. He had Thompson’s story. He was anxious to hear 
theirs. 

“‘A graveyard meeting,’” repeated the saloon-keeper. 
“Well, and that’s what it is in a manner of speaking.” 

Racey stared. “I bite. What’s the answer?” 

The saloon-keeper cleared his throat. “Old Dale’s been 
killed.” 

“Has, huh? WTio killed him?” Racey allowed his eyes 


THE SHOOTING 199 

casually to skim the expressionless faces of the men backed 
against the walls. 

“A stranger killed him,” replied McFluke, heavily. 

Racey removed his eyes from the slack-chinned counte- 
nance of the saloon-keeper to thin-faced, foxy-nosed Luke 
Tweezy. Luke’s little eyes met his. 

“You saw this stranger, Luke?” he asked. 

Luke Tweezy nodded. “We all saw him.” 

“He was playing draw with Honey Hoke and Peaches 
Austin and me,” Doc Coffin offered, oilily. 

“And the stranger?” amended Racey. 

“And the stranger,” Doc Coffin accepted the amend- 
ment. 

“What was the trouble?” pursued Racey. 

“Well, we kind of thought” — ^Doc Coffin’s eyes slid 
round to cross an instant the shifty gaze of Peachesjiustin — 
“we thought maybe this stranger dealt a card from the 
bottom. We ain’t none shore.” 

“Dale said he did, anyhow,” said Peaches Austin. 

“He said so twice,” put in Lanpher. 

Racey turned deliberately. “You here,” said he, softly. 
“I didn’t see you at first. I must be getting nearsighted. 
You saw the whole thing, did you, Lanpher?” 

“Yeah,” replied Lanpher. 

“Who pulled first?” 

“The stranger.” The answer came patly from at least 
five different men. 

Racey looked grimly upon those present. “Most every- 
body seems shore the stranger’s to blame,” he observed. 
“Besides saying the stranger was dealing from the bottom 
did Dale use any other fighting words?” 

“He called him a — tinhorn,” burst simultaneously from 
the lips of McFluke and Peaches Austin. 

“Only two this time,” said Racey, shooting a swift glance 
at JacLHarpe and overjoyed to find the latter dividing a glare 


200 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


of disgust between McFluke and Austin. “But you’ll have 
to do better than that.” 

Mr. Saltoun shivered inwardly. He was a man of courage, 
but not of foolhardy courage, the species of courage that 
dares death unnecessarily. He was getting on in years, and 
hoped, when it came his time to die, to pass out peacefully in 
his nightshirt. And here was that fool of a Racey practically 
telling Harpe and the other rascals that he was on to their 
game. No wonder Mr. Saltoun shivered. He expected 
matters to come to push of pike in a split second. So, being 
what he was, a fairly brave man in a tight corner, he put on a 
hard, confident expression and hooked his thumbs in his 
belt. 

Racey Dawson spread his legs wide and laughed a reckless 
laugh. He felt reckless. He likewise felt for these men 
ranged before him the most venomous hate of which he was 
capable. These men had killed the father of Molly Dale. 
It did not matter whether any one or all of them had or had 
not committed the actual murder, they were wholly respon- 
sible for it. They had brought it about. He knew it. He 
knew it just as sure as he was a foot high. And as he looked 
upon them sitting there in flinty silence he purposed to make 
them pay, and pay to the uttermost. That the old man had 
been a gambler and a drunkard, and the world was un- 
doubtedly a better world for his leaving it, were facts of no 
moment in Racey’s mind. He, Racey, was not one to con- 
done either murder or injustice. And this murder and the 
injustice of it would cruelly hurt three women. 

He laughed again, without mirth. His blue eyes, glittering 
through the slits of the drawn-down eyelids, were pin-points 
of wrath. His hard-bitten stare challenged his enemies. 
Damn them! let them shoot if they wanted to. He was 
ready. He, Racey Dawson, would show them a fight that 
would stack up as well as any of which a hard-fighting terri- 
tory could boast. So, feeling as he did, Racey stared upon 


THE SHOOTING 201 

his enemies with a frosty, slit-eyed stare and mentally dared 
them to come to the scratch. 

But in moments like these there is always one to say 
“Let’s go,” or give its equivalent, a sign. And that one is 
invariably the leader of one side or the other. Racey Daw- 
son saw Luke Tweezy turn a slow head and look toward Jack 
Harpe. He saw Doc Coffin, Honey, and Austin, one after 
the other, do the same. But Jack Harpe sat immobile. He 
neither spoke nor gave a sign. Perhaps he did not consider 
the present a sufficiently propitious moment. No one knew 
what he thought. Had he known what the futiu^e held in 
store he might have gone after his gun. 

Tense, nerves wire-drawn, Racey and Mr. Saltoun awaited 
the decision. 

It came, and like many decisions, its form was totally un- 
expected. Jack Harpe looked at Racey and said smile- 
lessly : 

“Wanna view the remains.?” 


V 


CHAPTER XX 


I 

DRAWING THE COVER | 

Y OU don’t understand it, do you, Peaches?” Racey | 
inquired genially of Peaches Austin when he found 
himself neighbours with that slippery gentleman at I 
the inquest. 

Peaches shied away from Racey on general principles. He 
feared a catch. There were so many things about Racey 
that he did not understand. 

“Whatcha talking about?” Peaches grunted, surlily. 

“You — me — Chuck — everybody, more or less. You don’t, 
do you?” 

“Don’t what?” A trifle more surlily. 

“You don’t see how and why Chuck Morgan is so all-fired ) 
friendly with me, and how I’m a-riding for a good outfit like 
the Bar S, when the last you seen of me. Chuck was a-hazing ! 
me up the trail with my hands over my head. You don’t 
understand it none. I can see it in your light green eyes. 
Peaches.” 

Peaches modestly veiled his pale green eyes beneath 
dropped lids and turned his head away. He would have 
given a great deal to go elsewhere. But to do that would j 
be to make himself conspicuous, and there were many ] 
reasons, all more or less cogent, why he did not wish to makel 
himself conspicuous. Peaches sat still on his chair and broke] 
into a gentle perspiration. | 

Racey perceived the other’s discomfort and ached to in- j 
crease it. “Did you stay here three-four days like I told you] 
to that time a few weeks ago? And was Jack Harpe most 


DRAWING THE COVER 203 

Gawd-awful hot under the collar when you did see him final? 
And if so, what happened?” 

Racey gaped at Peaches like an expectant terrier watching 
a rat-hole. It may be that Peaches felt like a holed rat in a 
hole too small for comfort. He turned on Racey with a flash 
of defiance. 

“There was a feller once,” said Peaches, “who bit off 
more’n he could chew.” 

“IVe heard of him,” Racey admitted, gravely. “He was 
first cousin to the other feller that grabbed the bear by the 
tail.” 

“I dunno whose first cousin he was,” frowned Peaches. 
“All I know is he didn’t show good sense.” 

“Now that,” said Racey, “is where you and I don’t think 
alike. I may be wrong in what I think. I may have made a 
mistake, but I gotta be showed why and wherefore. Any- 
body is welcome to show me. Peaches, just anybody.” 

Racey accompanied his remarks with a chilling look. The 
perspiration of Peaches turned clammy. 

“Meaning?” Peaches queried. 

“Meaning? Why, meaning that you can show me if you 
like. Peaches.” 

This was too much for Peaches. He was out of his depth 
and unable to swim. He sank with a gurgle of, “I dunno 
what yo’re drivin’ at.” 

Racey shook a sorrowful head. “I’m shore sorry to hear 
it. I was guessin’ you did. I had hopes of you. Peaches. 
You’ve done gimme a disappointment. Yep, she’s a cruel 
world when all’s said and done.” 

This was too much for Peaches. He resolved to shift his 
seat whether it made him conspicuous or not. The gambler 
removed to a vacant windowsill, upon which he sat and 
looked anywhere but at Racey Dawson. That young man 
leaned back in his chair and surveyed the multitude. 

Besides the citizens found in the saloon on his and Mr. 


204 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Saltoun’s arrival there were now present Dolan, who com- 
bined with his office of justice of the peace that of coroner, 
and twelve good men and true, the coroner’s jury and most 
intimate friends, ready and willing at any and all times to 
serve the territory for ten dollars a day and expenses. In 
addition to this representative group Alicran Skeel had 
dropped in from nowhere. Chuck Morgan had driven over 
with a wagon from Soogan Creek (mercifully the family at 
Moccasin Spring had not yet been informed of their bereave- 
ment) , and Sheriff Jake Rule and his deputy Kansas Casey 
had ridden out from Farewell. Punch-the-breeze Thompson 
had returned with the sheriff. Which circumstance either 
disposed of the theory that Thompson was the murderer, 
or else Thompson had more nerve than he was supposed 
to have. Racey began to nurse a distinct grievance against 
Thompson. 

The main room of the saloon, into which the body had been 
brought from the back room, was a fog of smoke and a 
blabber of voices. McFluke had not been idle at the bar, and 
the coroner’s jury was three parts drunk. The members had 
not yet agreed on a verdict. But the delay was a mere 
matter of form. They always liked to stretch the time, and 
give the territory a good run for her money. 

Racey Dawson, conscious that both Jack Harpe and Luke 
Tweezy were watching him covertly, rolled a meticulous 
cigarette. He scratched a match on the chair seat, held it to 
the end of the cigarette, and stared across the pulsing flame 
straight into the eyes of the Marysville lawyer. Tweezy ’s 
gaze wavered and fell away. Racey inhaled strongly, then 
got to his feet and lazed across to the bar where Jake Rule, 
with Kansas Casey at his elbow, was perfunctorily question- 
ing McFluke. The latter’s hard, close-coupled blue eyes 
narrowed at Racey ’s approach. 

Racey, as he draped himself against the bar, was careful to 
nudge Casey’s foot with a surreptitious toe. 


DRAWING THE COVER 


205 


“Jake,” said Racey, “would I be interruptin’ the proceed- 
ings too much if I made a motion for us to drink all round?” 

“Not a-tall,” declared the sheriff, heartily. 

Racey turned to McFluke. 

When their hands had encircled the glasses for the 
third time, Racey, instead of drinking, suddenly looked 
across the bar at McFluke who was industriously swabbing 
the bar top. 

“Mac,” he said, easily, “when that stranger ran out the 
door how many gents fired at him?” 

“Punch Thompson,” replied McFluke, the sushing cloth 
stopping abruptly. “You heard him tell the coroner how he 
fired and missed, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, I heard, I heard,” Racey answered. “No harm in 
asking again, is there? Can’t be too shore about these here 
— killin’s, can you? Mac, which door did the stranger run 
through — the one into the back room or the one leadin’ out- 
doors?” 

“Why, the one leadin’ outdoors, of course.” McFluke’s 
surprise at the question was evident. 

“Jake,” said Racey, “s’pose now you ask Punch Thomp- 
son what the stranger was doing when he cut down on him.”^ 

The sheriff regarded Racey with his keen gray gaze. Then 
he faced about and singled out Thompson from a conver- 
sational group across the room. 

“Punch,” he called, and then put Racey ’s question in his 
own words. 

“What was he doin’?” said Thompson, heedless of Mc- 
Fluke’s agonized expression. “Which he was hoppin’ 
through that window there” — here he indicated the middle 
one of three in the side of the room — “when I drawed and 
missed. I only had time for the one shot.” 

At this there was a sudden scrabbling behind the bar. It 
was McFluke trying to retreat through the doorway into the 
back room, and being prevented from accomplishing his pur- 


206 


THE HEAET OF THE RANGE 


pose by Racey Dawson who, at the innkeeper’s first panic- 
stricken movement, had vaulted the bar and grabbed him by 
the neck. 

“None of that now,” cautioned Racey Dawson, his right 
hand flashing down and up, as McFluke, finding that escape 
was out of the question, made a desperate snatch at the knife- 
handle protruding from his bootleg. 

The saloon-keeper reacted immediately to the cold menace 
of the gun-muzzle pressing against the top of his spinal 
column. He straightened sullenly. Racey, transferring the 
gun-muzzle to the small of McFluke’s back, stooped swiftly, 
drew out McFluke’s knife and tossed it through a window. 

“You won’t be needing that again,” said Racey Dawson. 
“Help yoreself, Kansas.” 

Which the deputy promptly proceeded to do by snapping a 
pair of handcuffs round the thick McFluke wrists. 

“Whatell you trying to do.^^” bawled McFluke in a rage. 
“I ain’t done nothing! You can’t prove I done nothing! 
You ” 

“Shut up!” interrupted Kansas Casey, giving the hand- 
cuffs an expert twitch that wrenched a groan out of McFluke. 
“Proving anything takes time. We got time. You got 
time. What more do you want?” 

The efficient deputy towed the saloon-keeper round the bar 
and out into the barroom. He faced him about in front of 
Jake Rule. The sheriff fixed him with a grim stare. 

“What did you try to run for, Mac?” he demanded. 

“I had business outdoors,” grumbled McFluke. 

“What kind of business?” 

“What’s that to you? You ain’t got no license to grab 
a-hold of me and stop me from transacting my legitimate 
business whenever and wherever I feel like it.” 

“You seem to know more about it than I do. Alla same 
unless you feel like telling me exactly what all yore hurry was 
for, we’ll have to hold you for a while. Yo’re shore it didn’t 


DRAWING THE COVER 


207 


have nothing to do with yore saying the stranger run out the 
door and Thompson saying he jumped through the window?” 

“Why, shore I am,” grunted McFluke. 

“Glad to hear that. But how is it you and Thompson 
seen the same thing different ways ? It’s a cinch the stranger, 
not being twins, didn’t use both the door and the window. 
Yo’re shore he run out the door, Mac?” 

“Shore I am. I seen him, I tell you.” But McFluke ’s 
tone rang flat. 

“Punch,” said the sheriff to Thompson who, in company 
with everyone else in the room had crowded round the 
sheriff and the prisoner, “Punch, how did the stranger who 
shot Dale leave the room?” 

“Through the window, like I said,” Thompson declared, 
defiantly. “Ask anybody. They all seen him. Mac’s 
drunk or crazy.” 

“Yo’re a liar!” snarled McFluke. “I tell you he run out 
the door.” 

“Aw, close yore trap!” requested Thompson with con- 
tempt. “You ain’t packin’ no gun.” 

“Lanpher,” said the sheriff, “how did the murderer get 
away.” 

“Through the window,” was the prompt reply of the 88 
manager. 

The sheriff asked Harpe, Coffin, Tweezy, and the others 
who had been present at the killing, for their versions. In 
every case, each had seen eye-to-eye with Thompson. The 
evidence was overwhelmingly against the saloon-keeper. But 
he, a glint of fear in his hard blue eyes, stuck to his original 
statement, swearing that all men were liars and he alone was 
telling the truth. 

Racey, standing a little back from the crowd, pulled out his 
tobacco-bag. But his fingers must have been all thumbs at 
the moment for he dropped it on the floor. He stooped to re- 
trieve it. The movement brought his eyes within a yard of 


208 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


the body of Dale. And now he saw that which he had not 
previously taken note of — an abrasion across the knuckles of 
Dale’s right hand. Not only that, but the hand, which was 
lying over the left hand on the body’s breast, showed an odd 
lumpiness at the knuckles of the first and second fingers. 

Racey stuffed his tobacco-bag into his vest pocket and 
knelt beside the body. It was cold, of course, but had not yet 
completely stiffened. He laid the two hands side by side 
and compared them. The left hand was as it should be — 
no lumpiness, bruises, or any discolouration other than grime. 
But now that the two hands were side by side the difference 
in the right hand was most apparent. 

Certainly it was badly bruised across the knuckles and the 
skin was broken, too. Furthermore, there was that odd 
lumpiness about the knuckles of the first and second fingers, 
a lumpiness that gave the knuckles almost the appearance of 
being double. 

He picked up the dead hand and gingerly fingered the 
lumpy knuckles. Then, in a flash of thought, it came to him. 
The hand was broken. 

He raised his head and looked across the room. And as it 
chanced he looked across the packed shoulders and between 
the peering heads of the crowd straight into the face of 
McFluke and the black eye adorning that face. 

He rose to his feet and pushed his way through the crowd to 
the side of the sheriff. 

“ Can I ask a question? ” said he to the officer. 

“Shore,” nodded the sheriff. “Many as you like.” 

“Thompson,” Racey said, but watching McFluke the 
while, “did Dale have any trouble here with anybody be- 
sides the stranger?” 

“Not as I know of,” came the reply after a moment’s 
hesitation. 

“He didn’t have any fuss with anybody,” spoke up Luke 
Tweezy. 


DRAWING THE COVER 


209 


“I was talking to Thompson,” Racey reminded the 
lawyer. “When I want to ask you any questions I’ll let you 
know.” 

“Huh,” Luke contented himself with grunting, and sub- 
sided. 

“No fuss a-tall, Thompson?” resumed Racey. 

“Nary a fuss.” 

“And you was here alia time Dale was here?” 

“I was here before Dale come, and I was still here when 
Dale — went away.” 

“In the same room with h im ?” 

“ In this room, yeah. In the same room with him alia time. 
Shore.” 

“Then if Dale had had a riot with anybody else but the 
stranger man you’d ’a’ knowed it.” 

“You betcha. He didn’t have no trouble, only with the 
stranger.” 

“Did anybody else have any trouble with anybody while 
you was here?” 

At this Thompson frowned. Where were Racey ’s ques- 
tions leading him? Was it a trap? Knowing Racey as he 
did, he feared the worst. He would have liked to leave the 
questioned unanswered. But this was impossible. As it 
was, he was delaying his answer longer than good sense 
warranted. Both Jake Rule and Kansas Casey were staring 
at him fixedly. Racey regarded him steadily, a slight and 
sinister smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well,” prompted Racey, “you’d oughta be able to tell 
us whether there was any other fights while you was here? ” 

“They wasn’t,” plunged Thompson. “Everything was 
salubrious till Dale started his battle.” 

“And when did you get here?” pursued Racey. 

“Oh, I’d been here all night.” 

“And you dunno of any other brush except the one be- 
tween Dale and the stranger?” 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


no 


“I done said so forty times, ’’Thompson declared, peevishly. 
*‘How many times have I gotta repeat it?” 

“As many times as yo’re asked,” put in the sheriff, sharply. 

“Didja see anybody get hurt — ^have a accident or some- 
thing while you were here, Thompson?” Racey bored on. 

Thompson shook an impatient head. “Nobody got hurt 
or had a accident.” 

“Then,” said Racey, turning suddenly on McFluke, 
“how did you get that black eye?” 


CHAPTER XXI 


GONE away! 

M cFLUKE’S eyes flickered at the question. His 
body appeared to sink inward. Then he straight- 
ened, and flung back his wide shoulders, and 
! glowered at Racey Dawson. 

“I ran into a door this morning,” said the saloon-keeper 
in a tone of the utmost confidence. 

“Oh, you ran into a door, did you,” Racey observed, 

; sweetly. “And what particular door did you run into?” 
i “The front door.” 

“That one?” Racey indicated the door of the barroom. 

I “That one.” 

“We’ll just take a look at that door.” 

Accompanied by the deeply interested sheriff, who was 
beginning to sniff his quarry like the old bloodhound he was, 
Racey crossed to the barroom door. He looked at the door. 

[ He looked at the sheriff. The sheriff looked only at the door. 

“Door’s opened back flat against the wall, Mac,” said the 
sheriff. “Was she like this when you ran into her?” 

“Course not,” was the heated reply. “She was swingin’ 
open.” 

Racey squatted down on the floor. “ Lookit here. Sheriff.” 
The sheriff stooped and regarded the wooden wedge under 
the door that jammed it fast. Racey drew a finger across the 
top of the wedge. He held up the finger-tip for the sheriff’s 
inspection. The tip was black with the dust of weeks. 

“That door has been wedged back all this hot weather,” 
said Racey, gently. “Look at the dust under the door on 

211 


212 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


both sides of the wedge, too. Bet that wedge ain’t been out 
of place for a month.” 

Softly as he spoke McFluke heard him. “ you ! Jtell 

you that door was opened this mornin’! I hit my head on 
it! Ask ’em all! Ask anybody! Jack, lookit here ” 

“I didn’t see you hit yore head on the door,” interrupted 
Jack Harpe. “Maybe you did, I dunno.” 

Racey raised a quick head as Jack Harpe spoke. Quite 
plainly he saw Jack Harpe accompany his words with a 
slight lowering of his left eyelid. Racey glanced at McFluke. 
He saw the defiant expression depart from the McFluke 
countenance, and a look of unmistakable relief take its 
place. 

Racey dropped his head. The sheriff was speaking. 

“Mac,” he was saying, “yo’re lyin’. Yo’re lyin’ as fast 
as a hoss can trot. You never got yore black eye on this door. 
I dimno why yo’re say in’ you did, but I’m gonna find out. 
Till ” 

“You won’t have far to go to find out,” struck in Racey 
Dawson. “I know how he got his black eye.” 

“How?” demanded the sheriff, his grizzled eyebrows 
drawing together. 

“Dale gave it to him,” was the answer pat and pithy. 

“He did not!” The saloon-keeper began to roar in- 
stantly, and had to be quieted by Kansas Casey. 

When order was restored Racey explained his deductions. 
The sheriff listened in silence. Then he went to the body of 
the dead man, and examined the bruised and broken right 
hand. 

“I’m tellin’ you,” declared Racey with finality, “he hit 
somebody when he broke that hand.” 

“He might ’a’ broke it when he fell after being shot,” put 
in Luke Tweezy. 

The sheriff shook his head. “ He couldn’t fall hard enough 
to break them bones as bad as that. It’s like Racey says. 


GONE AWAY! 


213 


Question is, who did he hit? McFluke’s eye and McFluke’s 
lies are a good enough answer for me.” 

“You’ll have to prove it!” snapped Luke Tweezy. 

“I expect we’ll do that, Luke,” the sheriff said, calmly. 
“Have you agreed on a verdict, Judge?” 

“We had,” replied Dolan. “We was about satisfied that 
a plain ‘killin’ by a person unknown,’ was as good as any, but 
I expect now we’ll change it to murder with the recommen- 
dation that McFluke be arrested on suspicion. Whadda you 
say, boys?” 

“Shore,” chorussed the “boys,” and hiccuped like so 
many bullfrogs. 

“Whu-wLy not lul-let the shush-shpicion shlide,” sug- 
gested one bright spirit, “an’ cuc-convict him right now an’ 
lul-lynch him after shupper whu-when it’s cool?” 

“No,” vetoed Dolan, “it can’t be done. He’s gotta be 
indicted and held for the Grand Jury at Piegan City. I ain’t 
allowed to try murder cases.” 

“Tut-too bad,” mourned the bright spirit, and refused to 
be comforted. 

“Can I take him now. Judge?” inquired Chuck Morgan, 
referring to the dead man. 

“Any time,” nodded Dolan. 

Racey Dawson, whose eyes that day were missing nothing, 
saw that Jack Harpe was looking steadily at Luke Tweezy. 
Luke’s nod was barely perceptible. 

“Where were you thinking of taking him. Chuck?” was 
Tweezy ’s query. 

“Moccasin Spring,” Chuck replied, laconically. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Luke Tweezy. “Better 
save trouble by taking him to yore house.” 

It was coming now — the answer to one puzzle at least. 
Racey was sure of it. He was not disappointed. 

“And why had I better take him to my house? ” demanded 
Chuck. 


214 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ Because the ranch at Moccasin Spring don’t belong to the 
Dale family any more,” Tweezy explained, smoothly. “ Dale 
has turned over the place to Lanpher and me.” 

“It’s a damn lie!” declared Chuck. 

Tweezy smiled. He was a lawyer, not a fighter. Names 
signified nothing in his greasy life. “It’s no lie,” he tossed 
back. “You know Lanpher and me bought the mortgage 
on the Dale place from the Marysville bank. The mortgage 
is due in a couple of days. Dale didn’t have the money to 
satisfy the mortgage. We was gonna foreclose. In order to 
save trouble all round he made the ranch over to us.” 

“You mean to tell me Dale did that just to save trouble?” 
burst out Racey. “Just because he liked you two fellers and 
wanted to make it as easy as possible for you? Aw, hell, 
Tweezy. Aw, hell again. Yo’re as poor a liar as yore side- 
kicker McFluke.” 

Tweezy smiled once more and drew forth a long and shiny 
pocket-book from the inner pocket of his vest. From the 
pocket-book he extracted a legal-looking document. Which 
document he handed to Sheriff Rule. 

“Read her off, Jake,” requested Luke Tweezy. 

The sheriff read aloud the fines of writing. Shorn of the 
impressive terms so beloved of law and lawyers, the document 
set forth that in consideration of being allowed to retain all 
his live-stock, wagons, and household goods, instead of merely 
the fixed number of cattle, horses, and wagons, and those 
specified household articles, exempt from seizure under the 
law. Dale voluntarily released to the mortgagers, without the 
formality of foreclosure proceedings, the mortgaged property 
comprising six hundred and forty acres as described herein- 
after, etcetera. 

The document was signed by Dale and witnessed by Doc 
Coffin and Honey Hoke. 

The sheriff held the paper out to Chuck Morgan. “This 
Dale’s signature. Chuck?” 


GONE AWAY! 


215 


Chuck Morgan examined the signature closely and long. 

“Looks like it,” he said, hesitatingly. 

“It’s his signature, all right,” spoke up Honey Hoke. “I 
saw him sign it.” 

“Me, too,” said Doc Coffin. 

“Paper’s dated to-day,” said the sheriff. “How long 
before he was killed did Dale sign it, Luke?” 

“About a hour,” repUed Tweezy. 

“It’s made out in yore writin’, ain’t it?” went on the sher- 
iff. 

“Shore,” nodded Luke. “All but the signature. So, you 
see. Chuck,” he continued, turning to Morgan, “you might 
as well pack him to yore house. We intend to take possession 
immediately.” 

“You do, huh,” said Chuck. “You try it, thassall I gotta 
say. You try it.” 

“I’d admire to see you drive those women out of their 
home on the strength of that paper, Tweezy,” remarked 
Racey. 

“Sheriff, I’ll make out eviction papers immediately and 
Judge Dolan will have you serve them on the Dale family.” 
Thus Luke Tweezy, blustering. 

I “That’s yore privilege,” said the sheriff, “and I’ll have to 
I serve ’em, I suppose. But only in the regular course of busi- 
j ness, Luke. I’m mighty busy just now. Yore eviction 
! notice will have to take its turn.” 

. “My punchers will throw ’em out then,” averred Lanpher. 

1 “They ain’t nary a one of ’em would gorm up their paws 
on a job like that for you, Lanpher,” Alicran stated in no 
! uncertain tones. “If you got any dirty work to do you’ll do 
it yoreself.” 

“ Yo’re ” began the 88 manager, and stopped suddenly. 

“What was you gonna say?” Ahcran’s voice cut sharply 
across the general silence. 

Lanpher controlled himself by an effort. Or perhaps it 


216 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


was not such an effort, after all. It may have been that he 
remembered the object lesson of the severed branch of the 
wild currant bush. At any rate, he did not pursue further the 
subject of the 88 cowboys cast as an eviction gang. 

“I’ll talk to you later, Alicran,” said he in a tone he strove 
to make grimly menacing, but which actually imposed upon 
no one, least of all the truculent Alicran. 

“We won’t need yore boys, Lanpher,” said Racey. “The 
sheriff will attend to it.” 

“Lookit here, Tweezy,” said Judge Dolan, slouching to the 
front of the crowd, “are you gonna run them women off that- 
away after this?^* Here the Judge jerked his head backward 
in the direction of the body. 

“Why not? ” Tweezy demanded, sulkily. “We got a right 
to.” 

“It don’t always pay to stand on our rights, Luke,” sug- 
gested the Judge. “I’d go a li’l easy if I was you.” 

“You ain’t me,” said Tweezy, rudely. 

“Which is something I gotta be grateful for,” the Judge 
returned to the charge. “But alia same, Luke, I’d scratch 
my head and think how this here is gonna look. Here Dale 
gives you this paper, and a hour later he’s cashed. Of 
course, it looks like his signature, and you got witnesses who 

say it’s his signature, but ” The Judge paused and gravely 

contemplated Luke Tweezy. 

“I’ll tell you what it looks like to me,” announced Racey 
in a loud, unsympathetic tone. “The whole deal’s too 
smooth. She’s so smooth she’s slick, like a eounterfeit 
dollar. You and Lanpher are a couple of damn thieves, 
Tweezy.” 

But the sheriff’s gun was out first. “None of that, Lan- 
pher,” he cautioned. “They ain’t gonna be no lockin’ horns 
here. That goes for you, too, Racey.” 

“I don’t need to pull any gun,” Racey declared, contemptu- 
ously. “All I’d have to use is my fingers on that feller. He 


GONE AWAY! 217 

never went after his gun till he seen you pull yores. He ain’t 
got any nerve, that’s all that’s the matter with him.” 

Lanpher snarled curses at this. He yearned for the dare- 
devil courage suflBcient to risk all on a single throw by pulling 
his gun left-handed and sending a bullet smack through the 
scornful face of Racey Dawson. But it was precisely as 
Racey said. He did not have the nerve. With half-a-dozen 
drinks imder his belt he undoubtedly would have made an 
attempt to clear his honour. But he was not carrying the 
requisite amount of liquor. Lanpher snarled another string 

of oaths. “If I didn’t have my right arm in a sling ” he 

began. 

“I guess,” interrupted the sheriff, “this will be about all. 
Lanpher, yore boss is outside. Git on and git out.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


A CHECK 

I OOKIT here. Judge,” said Racey, earnestly, “do you 
mean to say yo’re gonna let the sheriff serve them 
eviction papers?” 

Judge Dolan elevated his feet upon his desk and tilted back , 
his chair before replying. 

“Racey,” he said, teetering gently, “I gotta do what the 
law says in this thing.” 

“Then yo’re gonna sic the sheriff on, huh?” 

“I ain’t doin’ no sicin’, not me. Luke Tweezy’s the boy 
you mean.” 

“But the law makes you back up Luke.” 

“In this case it does.” 

“Then it’s a helluva law that lets a feller take away the 
home of two women.” i 

“They’s lots of times,” observed Dolan, judicially, “when I | 
think she’s a helluva law, too. But what you gonna do? j 
Under the law one man’s word is as good as another’s till he’s I 
proved a liar. And two men’s words are better than one, and 
so on. And so far nobody ain’t proved Doc Coffin and Honey 
Hoke and Luke Tweezy are liars.” 

“Of course we know they are,” protested Racey. 

“Not legally. You gotta remember that knowing a man 
is a liar is one thing, and being able to prove it is another i 
breed of cat.” j 

“Then they ain’t nothing to be done short of rubbing out 5 
Lanpher and Tweezy?” 

“And what good would wiping out either or both of then ‘ 
218 


A CHECK 


219 


do? Beyond Lanpher and Tweezy are their heirs and assigns, 
whoever they may be. You can’t go down the Hne and abolish 
i ’em all.” 

‘‘I s’pose not,” grumbled Racey. 

‘‘Of course not. It ain’t reasonable. You don’t wanna 
bull along regardless hke a bufflehead in this, Racey. You 
i wanna use yore brains a few. They’ll always go farther than 
s main strength. You got brains, and you can bet you’ll need 
' every single one of ’em if you wanna get to the bottom of this 
; business.” 

; “Under the circmnstances, then, what’s yore advice, 
i Judge?” 

; “I ain’t got no particular advice to give,” replied Dolan, 
i promptly. “I’m a judge, not a lawyer, but I’m free to say 
even if I was a lawyer, I dunno exactly what I’d do, or where 
I’d begin.” 

Racey nodded. He didn’t see exactly where to begin, 
either. 

“Lookit, Judge,” he said at last, “can’t you sort of delay 
ithe proceedin’s for a while?” 

“I’ll do what I can,” assented Dolan, “but I can’t keep 
it up forever. I’m sworn to obey the law and see that it is 
obeyed. And if Luke Tweezy’s paper can’t be proved a 
j forgery certain and soon, they’s only one thing for me to do 
and one thing for the Dales to do. I’m sorry, but that’s the 
way it stands under the law.” 

It was then that the door-latch clicked and one entered 
without knocking. It was Luke Tweezy. Beyond the 
merest flicker of a glance he did not acknowledge the presence 
of Racey Dawson. He nodded perfunctorily to Dolan. 

“Mornin’, Judge,” said he, “are the papers ready for the 
sheriff yet?” 

“Not yet, Luke, not yet,” Dolan assured, him blandly. 
“I ain’t had time to get at ’em.” 

“When you gonna get at ’em?” 


£20 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Soon as I get time.” 

“But lookit here, Judge. We’re bein’ delayed. We 
wanna get the Dales off their ranch soon as we can.” 

“Off their ranch is shore the truth,” struck in Racey. 
“You do tell it sometimes, don’t you, Luke?” 

But Luke Tweezy was not to be drawn that morning. He 
focussed his eyes and attention steadily on Judge Dolan. 

“We wanna take possession soon as we can,” persisted 
Luke Tweezy. 

“ Shore you do,” said the Judge, heartily. “ No reason why 
you shouldn’t wanna as I know of.” 

“If you can’t see yore way to getting at this business within 
a reasonable time I’ll have to sue out a mandatory injunction 
against you. Judge, and ” 

Dolan smiled wintrily. “What judge are you figuring on 
to grant this injunction?” 

Luke Tweezy was silent. 

“You don’t expect me to grant a mandatory injunction 
against myself, do you?” pursued Dolan. 

“I can go to Judge Allison at Marysville or to Piegan 
City, and I guess ” 

“I guess not,” interrupted the Judge. “Judge Allison, as 
you know, is a Federal Judge, and these here eviction pro- 
ceedin’s are territorial business. And, furthermore, lemme 
point out that the Piegan City court ain’t got any jurisdic- 
tion in this case.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because the case ain’t come to a hearing yet. That’s 
why. You oughta know that, Luke. Yo’re a lawyer.” 

“Alla same ” began Luke. 

“Alla same nothing!” declared Judge Dolan. After 
eviction proceedin’s have been started, and if you don’t have 
any luck in getting them women off the place, then you can 
apply to this court for redress. I’ll set a date for a hearing. 
After the hearing, if you got a notion in yore numskull that I 


A CHECK 


221 


ain’t doing you right, you can apply to the Piegan City court 

for all the mandatory injunctions you feel like and be 

to you. Is they any further business you got with me, 

I Luke, or any more points of law you wanna be instructed 
on? ’Cause if they ain’t, here’s you, there’s the door, and 
right yonder is outside.” 

Luke Tweezy departed abruptly, 
t Dolan laughed harshly as the door slammed. “He can’t 
bluff me, the chucklehead. He knew he couldn’t sue out a 
1 mandatory injunction yet, knew it damn well, but he didn’t 
dhink I knew it, damn his ornery soul.” 

“Oh, he’s slick, Luke Tweezy is,” said Racey Dawson, 
il“but like most slick gents he thinks everybody else is a 
[fool.” 

“He makes a mistake once in a while,” grunted Dolan. 

At which Racey looked up sharply. “A mistake,” he 
jrepeated. “There’s an idea. I wonder if he has made any 
mistake.” 

“Who ain’t?” nodded Dolan. “Luke’s made plenty. I’ll 
ibet.” 

j “I dunno about plenty,” doubted Racey. “One would be 
enough.” 

Dolan rasped a hand across his stubbly chin. “One would 
be enough,” he admitted. “If you could find the one.” 

“It wouldn’t have to be a mistake having to do with this 
particular case, either, would it?” 

“Not necessarily. Of course it would be better to trip him 
up on this case, but if you can get hold of something else Luke 
jhas done that can be proved anyways shady it would be four 
jaces and the joker. Luke would have to pull in his horns 
about this mortgage. And if I know Luke, he’d do it. He’s 
got nerve, but it ain’t cold enough nor witless enough to go 
up against the shore thing.” 

“If only McFluke would talk. He knows the ins and outs 
of this business.” 


^22 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

Dolan nodded. “Shore as yo’re a foot high Dale gave, 
him that black eye.” 

“And shore as 2 / 0 Ve a foot high he downed Dale.” 

“I guess likely. But circumstantial evidence is amazing 
queer. You can’t ever tell how the jury’s gonna take it. ‘ 
But anyway we got McFluke, and he’ll do to start in on.” 

Entered then Kansas Casey with a serious face. “McFluke i 
has sloped,” said he without preliminary. ! 

“What!” cried Judge Dolan. | 

But it was characteristic of Racey Dawson that he did not 
say “What!” He asked “How?” 

“Because the jail was burned down,” said Kansas; “you 
know we had to put him in yore warehouse. Judge, as the 
next strongest place, and they dug him out.” 

“‘Dug him out?’ ” Thus Judge Dolan. 

“That’s what they did.” 

“‘They!’ ‘They!’ Who’s ‘they?’” Again Judge Dolan. 

“If I knowed who they was,” Kansas replied, “I’d dump 
’em just too quick. Way I know it’s a ‘they,’ is because the . 
job of diggin’ is bigger than a one-man job.” 

“We’ll go look into this,” Dolan exclaimed, wrathf ully , and 
reached for his hat. 

“He’d never ’a’ been pulled out of the calaboose so easy,” 
said Kansas, as he led Dolan and Racey up the street to the 
rear of the Dolan warehouse, “but yore foundation logs 
ain’t sunk more’n six inches, and diggin’ under and in was 
a cinch.” 

“ But why didn’t you handcuff this sport to a roof stanchion | 
inside?” demanded the Judge. | 

“ We did, man, we did. We got a log chain and the biggest | 
pair of handcuffs in our stock and we ironed McFluke by the ' 
ankles to a stanchion in the middle of the warehouse. Be- • 
sides that his hands was handcuffed, and no matter how he 
stretched he couldn’t reach nothing. We seen to that.” 

“But, my Gawd,hownell did they have time to file through 


A CHECK 


223 


that log chain or them cuffs? A log chain ain’t made of wire 
ian’ them cuffs is all special steel.” 

“They didn’t file neither the chain nor the cuffs,” explained 
j Kansas, wearily. “They unlocked the cuffs.” 
i “Unlocked ’em, huh? Where’d they get the key? Lose 
one of yores, did yuh?” 

“Ours is all safe. They must ’a’ had a key. Anyway, 
there’s the handcuffs wide open when I found McFluke gone 
[this mornin’.” 

Dolan pulled out his watch. “Nine o’clock,” said he. 

! “When did you first find Mac was gone, Kansas?” 

“ When I took his breakfast in less’n five minutes ago.” 

“Howcome you went to the warehouse so late?” 

“Well,” said Kansas, somewhat shamefacedly, “we didn’t 
lock him up in the warehouse till one o’clock this morning, 

! and I figured a li’l extra sleep wouldn’t do him any harm.” 

“Or a li’l extra sleep wouldn’t do yoreself any harm 
neither, huh?” 

“Maybe I did sleep later than usual,” admitted Kansas. 

“I guess you did,” said Dolan. “I guess you did. And 
Jake, too. Told anybody else about this?” 

“Only Jake.” 

I They had left the street while they talked, and walked 
I down the long side wall of the warehouse. Now they turned 
I the corner and saw, heaped against a foundation log, a pile of 
freshly dug dirt. Beyond the dirt pile gaped the mouth of a 
hole leading beneath the log. The hole was quite large 
enough for an over-size man to crawl through without 
difficulty. 

Judge Dolan got down on his hands and knees and peered 
into the hole. Then he eased down into it headfirst and 
pawed his way through. 

“That’s what you get for not walking in by the front door 
in the first place, Kansas,” grinned Racey. “Root hog or 
die, feller, root hog or die.” 


224 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Swearing under his breath Kansas went to ground like 
a badger. His broad shoulders did not scrape the sides 
of the hall. Observing which Racey knew that it must 
have been an easy matter for McFluke to crawl through, 
for the saloon-keeper’s shoulders, wide as they were, were 
not as broad as those of Kansas Casey by a good inch and 
a half. 

“That hole is four or five inches wider than necessary,” 
ruminated Racey, preparing to follow the deputy. “I 
wonder why. Yep, I shore wonder why. Here they are in a i 
harris of a hurry and they take time to make a hole big ; 
enough for two men almost. Maybe they robbed the ware- 
house, too.” 

He suggested as much to Dolan when he joined the latter 
within. 

“No,” said Dolan, sweeping with a glance the stacks of 
cases and crates that half filled the single floor of the ware- 
house. “No, I don’t think they ’s anything missing. Who’d 
steal truck like this here, anyway It ain’t valuable enough. , 
Where’s Jake, Kansas?” 

“I left him here when I went after you,” replied the deputy. 
“Guess this is him,” he added, as the front door opened. 

It was the sheriff. He shut the door behind him and ad- 
vanced toward the little group gathered about the stanch- 
ion. “This is a great note, Jake,” said Dolan, eyeing the 
sheriff severely. “ Can’t you make out to hang onto yore 
prisoners no more?” 

“Hang onto hell!” snapped back the sheriff. “Short of 
sleeping in here with him, I done all that could be expected. 

I put Shorty Rumbold on as guard, and Shorty ” ; 

“Where’s Shorty?” 

“Went to the Starlight for a drink. He’ll be along in a 
minute.” 

“Maybe ne went to sleep,” suggested Dolan. 

“Not Shorty,” denied the sheriff, with a decisive ghake of 


A CHECK 


ms 


his head. “I’ve used Shorty before. He don’t go to sleep 
on duty. Shorty don’t. Here he is now.” 

Entered then Shorty Rumbold, a tall, lean-bodied man 
with a twinkling eye and a square chin. 

“Shorty,” said Dolan, “Jake says he put you on guard here 
last night.” 

[ “Not here,” said Shorty, always painfully meticulous as ta 
facts. “Outside.” 

“ Where outside.^* ” 

^ “Just outside. I sat on the doorstep all night.” 

“And didn’t you go round to the back once even?” 

“I didn’t think they was any use. They’s no door in the 
back, and the logs are forty inches through, some of ’em. I 
Inever thought of ’em gopherin’ under this away.” 

“I guess the sheriff didn’t, either,” said Dolan, with a 
glance of strong disapproval at the sheriff. “You didn’t 
hear anything, huh? Yo’re shore of that?” 

“ Shore I am. If I’d heard anything I’d ’a’ scouted round 
ito see what made the noise.” 

I “Maybe you went to sleep.” 

“Not me.” The twinkle in Shorty’s eyes was replaced by 
a frosty stare. “I don’t sleep on duty. Judge.” 

I “That’s what the sheriff said. Shorty. But, hownell 
I they could dig that tunnel and not make some noise I don’t 
I see.” 

I “I don’t, either,” Shorty Rumbold admitted, frankly. 

I “But I didn’t hear a single suspicious sound either inside or 
I outside the jail the whole night.” 

“Did you hear any noise a-tall?” asked Racey Dawson. 
“Only when some drunk gents had a argument out in front 
of the dance hall. You couldn’t help bearin’ ’em. They 
made noise enough to hear ’em a mile.” 

“How long did the argument last?” 

“Oh, maybe a hour — a long time for a plain argument with- 
out any shooting.” 


226 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Did they call each other any fighting names?” pressed on 
Racey. 

“Plenty.” 

“And no shooting?” 

“Nary a shot.” 

“Didn’t that hit you as kind of odd?” 

“It did at the time sort of.” 

“Recognize any of the voices?” 

Shorty Rumbold shook his head. “They was all too 
hoarse an’ loud.” 

“That’s the how of it. Judge,” said Racey to Dolan. 
“That’s why Shorty didn’t hear any sounds of diggin’. The 
drunk gents a rowing together for a long time like that 
without any shooting proves they were doing it on purpose to 
keep Shorty from hearing anything else.” 

The sheriff swore. “I heard them fellers, too,” he said. 
“They woke me up with their bellerin’ and I had a job gettin’ 
to sleep again. I guess Racey’s right.” 

“I guess he is,” assented the Judge. “Now we know how 
they managed that part of it, where did they get the key to 
open the cuffs? Kansas says you ain’t lost any keys, Jake.” 

“We got ’em all, every one. I don’t believe they used a 
key. Them handcuff locks was picked.” 

“Picked?” 

“Picked. After Kansas went for you I found these here 
on the floor.” Here he produced from a pocket a bent and 
twisted piece of baling-wire, and a steel half-moon horse- 
collar needle. 

“That’s a Number Six needle,” observed the sheriff, who 
invariably scented clues in the most unpromising objects. 
“And the point’s broke off.” 

“Number Six is a common size,” said Racey. “Most 
stores carry ’em. And if the point didn’t get broke off 
wigglin’ round inside the lock it would be a wonder.” 

“Still it would take a mighty good man to open them locks 


A CHECK 


227 


with only bale-wire and a harness-needle,” said the sheriff, 
hurriedly. “A expert, you bet.” 

“It don’t matter whether he was a expert or not,” said 
Dolan. “He opened them, and the prisoner has skedaddled. 
That’s the main thing. Jake, how about trailin’ him?” 

“How? They’s tracks, a few of ’em, leadin’ from the pile 
of dirt straight to the hard ground in front of the stage corrals. 
Beyond there they ain’t any tracks. Trail ’em! How you 
gonna trail ’em?” 

“I dunno,” replied Dolan, promptly passing the buck. 
“ Yo’re the sheriff. She’s yore job. You gotta do something. 
C’mon out.” 

The five men, Dolan and the sheriff arguing steadily, went 
out into the street. Racey walked thoughtfully in the rear. 
He was revolving in his mind what the sheriff had said about 
an expert. Of course it had been an expert. And experts in 
lock-picking in the cattle country are few and far between. 

Racey decided that it would be a good idea for him to have 
a little talk on lock-picking with Peaches Austin. Not that 
he suspected the excellent Peaches of having picked those 
locks. But Peaches knew who had. Oh, most certainly 
Peaches knew who had. 


CHAPTEE XXIII 


TAKING FENCES 

^ X O, PEACHES ” 

I Peaches Austin, standing at the Starlight bar, was 
^ raising a glass to his lips. But at the greeting he set 
down the liquor untasted,’turned his head, and looked into the 
face of Racey Dawson. 

“ Whatsa matter. Peaches ? ” inquired Racey. “ You don’t 
look glad to see me.” 

“ I ain’t,” Peaches said, frankly. “ I don’t give a damn about 
seein’ you.” 

“I’m sorry,” grieved Racey, edging closer to the gambler. 
“Peaches, yo’re breaking my heart with them cruel 
words.” 

At this the bartender removed hastily to the other end of 
the bar. He sensed he knew not what, and he felt instead of 
curiosity a lively fear. Racey Dawson was the most un- 
expected sport. 

Peaches looked nervously at Racey. A desperate resolve 
began to formulate itself in the brain of Peaches Austin. His 
right arm tensed. Slowly his hand slid toward the edge of the 
bar. 

“Why, no,” said Racey, who had never been more wide- 
awake than at that moment, “I wouldn’t do anything we’d 
all be sorry for. Peaches. That is, all of us but you yoreself. 
You might not be sorry — or anythin’ else.” 

This was threatening language, plain and simple. But it 
was no bluff. Peaches knew that Racey meant every word he 
said. Peaches’ right hand moved no farther. 

228 


TAKING FENCES 


229 


“Peaches,” said Racey, “le’s go where we can have a li’l 
private talk.” 

“All right,” Peaches acquiesced, shortly, and left the saloon 
, with Racey. 

On the sidewalk they were joined by Swing Tunstall. The 
latter fell into step on the other side of Peaches Austin. 

“Is he coming, too?” queried the gambler, with a marked 
absence of cordiality in expression and tone. 

“He is,” answered Racey. 

“I thought this talk was gonna be private.” 

“It is — only the three of us. We wouldn’t think of letting 
anybody else horn in. You can rest easy. Peaches. We’ll 
take care of you.” 

The gambler didn’t doubt it. His wicked heart sank 
accordingly. He knew that he had been a bad, bad boy, and 
he conceived the notion that Nemesis was rolling up her 
sleeves, all to his ultimate prejudice. 

He perceived in front of the dance hall Doc Coffin and 
Honey Hoke, and plucked up heart at once. But Racey saw 
the pair at the same time, and said, twitching Peaches by the 
sleeve, “We’ll turn off here, I guess.” 

Peaches turned perforce and accompanied Racey and Swing 
into the narrow space between the express office and a log 
house. When they came out into the open Racey obliqued to 
the left and piloted his companion to a large log that lay 
among empty tin cans, almost directly in the rear of and 
about fifty yards away from Dolan’s warehouse. 

“Here’s a good place,” said Racey, indicating the log. 
“Good seats, plenty of fresh air, and nobody round to bother 
us. Sidown, Peaches.” 

Peaches sat as requested. The two friends seated them- 
selves one on his either hand. Racey laughed gently. 

“Doc Coffin and Honey looked kind of surprised to see 
you with us,” he remarked with enjoyment, “didn’t they. 
Peaches?” 


230 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“I didn’t notice,” lied Peaches. 

“It don’t matter,” nodded Racey. “See that pile of dirt 
over against the back wall of Dolan’s warehouse. Peaches?” 

“I ain’t blind.” 

“No, then maybe you’ve heard how and why it come to be 
dug and all?” 

“I ain’t deaf, neither.” 

Racey smiled his approval. “I always said you had all 
yore senses except the common variety. Peaches.” 

“Hop ahead with yore private talk,” grunted the badgered 
gambler. 

“Gimme time, gimme time. It don’t cost anything. 
Whadda you think of that hole, Peaches?” 

“Good big hole,” replied Peaches, conservatively. 

“Too big — that is, too big for just McFluke, or for any 
other feller the size of McFluke.” 

“What of it?” 

“ Don’t be in a hurry; Peaches, and you’ll last longer. Did 
you know Mac’s handcuffs were picked open?” 

“How — ^picked open?” 

“Whoever opened ’em didn’t use a key,” Racey explained. 
“They were picked open with a piece of bale- wire and a 
collar-needle.” 

“I heard that.” 

“I thought maybe so. But did you ever think that a 
feller has got to have a good and clever pair of hands to pick a 
lock with only a collar-needle and bale-wire?” 

“All that stands to reason,” admitted Peaches. 

“There can’t be a great many fellers like that. No, not 
many — not around here, anyway. You’ll find such sports 
in the big cities mainly.” 

“Yeah,” chipped in Swing Tunstall, staring hard at 
Peaches, “I’ll bet you a hundred even they ain’t more than 
one or two such experts in the whole territory.” 

“Whadda you think. Peaches?” inquired Racey. 


TAKING FENCES 


231 


“Swing may be right,” said Peaches, preserving a wooden 
countenance. “I dunno.” 

“Shore about that.^” Sharply. 

“Shore I’m shore. Why not?” 

“You looked sort of funny when you said it. Well, then. 
Peaches, we’ll go back to our hole yonder. It’s reasonable to 
suppose that fellers hustlin’ to dig it and without any too 
much time wouldn’t make it any bigger than they had to. 
How about it, huh?” 

“Guess so, maybe.” 

“Aw right, I told you a while ago the hole was too big for 
McFluke. Why was it made too big for McFluke?” 

“Damfino.” 

“ So as to let in the feller who was to pick open Mac’s hand- 
cuffs.” 

“Well, what does that prove?” 

“ It proves that the expert who set Mac loose was a bigger 
man across the shoulders than M^luke. Now who all 
around here, besides Kansas Casey, is wider across the 
shoulders than McFluke?” 

Peaches wrinkled his forehead. “I dunno,” he said after 
a space. 

“ Think again. Peaches, think again. Don’t you know any- 
body who’s bigger sidewise than McFluke?” 

“I don’t. Mac’s the biggest man across the shoulders 
I ever seen.” 

“Good enough. Peaches. I’ve found out what I wanted. 
I had a fair idea before, but now I know. I hear you were 
acting boisterious and noisy out front of the dance hall last 
night?” 

“What of it?” 

“Oh, nothin’, nothin’ a-tall. Only I’d think it over — I’d 
think everythin’ over good an careful, and after I’d done that 
I’d do what looked like the best thing to do — under the 
circumstances. That’s all. Peaches. You can go now. I 


232 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


think yore friends are looking for you. I saw Doc Coffin 
peekin’ round the corner of the dance hall a couple of times.” 

Peaches arose and faced Racey Dawson and Swing Tun- 
stalL “I ” he began, and stopped. 

“I ” prompted Swing. 

“I what.^” smiled Racey. “Speak right out, Peaches. 
Don’t you care if you do hurt our feelin’s. They’re tough. 
They can stand it. Say what’s on yore mind.” 

But Peaches did not say what was on his mind. He 
turned about and walked hurriedly away. 

“So it was Jack Harpe who picked the cuffs,” murmured 
Racey. “Peaches, old timer, I didn’t think you’d be so 
easy.” 

“Neither did I,” said Swing. “And him a gambler. No 
wonder he ain’t doin’ so well.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


DIPLOMACY 

W ORRIED Mrs. Dale raised a work-scarred hand and 
pushed back a lock of gray hair that had fallen over 
one eye. “It’s a forgery,” she said, wretchedly. 
“ I know it’s a forgery. He — he wouldn’t sign such a paper. 
I know he wouldn’t.” 

Molly Dale, all unmindful of Racey Dawson sitting in a 
chair tilted back against the wall, slipped around the table 
and slid her arm about her mother’s waist. 

“There, there, Ma,” she soothed, pulling her mother’s 
head against her firm young shoulder. “Don’t you fret. It 
will come out all right. You’ll see. You mustn’t worry this 
way. Can’t you believe what Racey says? Try, dear, try.” 

But unhappy Mrs. Dale was beyond trying. She saw the 
home which she had worked to get and slaved to maintain 
taken from her and herself and her daughter turned out of 
doors. There was no help for it. There was no hope. The 
future was pot-black. She broke down and wept. 

“Oh, oh,” she sobbed, “if only I’d watched him closer 
that day. But I was washing, and I sort of forgot about him 
for a spell, and when I’d got the clothes on the line he wasn’t 
anywhere in sight, and — and it’s all my fuf-fault.” 

This was too much for Racey Dawson. He got up and 
went out. Savagely he pulled his hat over his eyes and 
strode to where his horse stood in the shade of a cottonwood. 
But he did not pick up the trailing reins. For as he reached 
the animal he saw approaching across the fiat the figures of a 
horse and rider. And the man was Luke Tweezy. 

233 


234 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


With the sight of Mrs. Dale’s tears fresh in his memory and 
the rage engendered thereby galvanizing his brain he went 
to meet Mr. Twef/zy. 

“Howdy, Racey,” said the lawyer, pulling up. 

“Whadda you want.?^” demanded Racey, halting a scant 
yard from Luke Tweezy’s left leg. 

“I come to see Mrs. Dale,” replied Tweezy, his leathery 
features wrinkling in a grimace intended to pass for a pro- 
pitiating smile. 

Racey ’s stare was venomous. “Tweezy,” he drawled, “I 
done told you something about admiring to see you put these 
women off this ranch, didn’t I.f^” 

“Oh, you was just a li’l hasty. I understand. That’s all 
right. I’ve done forgot all about it.” 

“So I see. So I see. I’m reminding you of it. After 
this, Luke, I’d hobble my memory if I was you, then it won’t 
go straying off thisaway and get you into trouble.” 

“Trouble.?” 

Racey did not deign to repeat. He nodded simply. 

“I ain’t got no gun,” explained the lawyer. 

“Alla more easy for me, then. You can’t shoot back.” 

Luke Tweezy choked. Choked and spat. “ ” 

he began in a violent tone of voice. 

“Careful, careful,” cautioned Racey, promptly kicking the 
lawyer’s horse in the ribs. “There’s ladies in the house. 
You get a-holt of yore tongue.” 

Luke Tweezy obeyed the command literally. For, his 
horse going into the air with great briskness at the impact of 
Racey’s toe, even as the puncher had intended it should, he, 
Luke Tweezy, bit his tongue so hard that he wept involuntary 
tears of keenest anguish. 

“You stop that cussin’,” resumed Racey, seizing the bridle 
short and yanking the bouncing horse to a standstill with a 
swerve and a jerk that almost unseated its rider. “You be 
careful how you talk, you — hop toad!” 


DIPLOMACY 


235 


“Leggo that bridle!” yammered Tweezy, almost dis- 
traught with anger. His tongue pained him exquisitely and 
he was otherwise physically shaken. “Leggo that bridle!” 

“I’ll let it go!” Racey grated through set teeth, and he 
let it go with a backward flip to the lower branches of the 
severe curb bit that instantly sent the horse on its hind legs. 
If Luke Tweezy had not quickwittedly smacked the animal 
between the ears with the butt of his quirt it would have 
continued the motion to a backfall and rolled its rider out. 

“Tough luck,” mourned Racey, sorry to observe that Luke 
had contrived to ward off an accident. “I was expecting to 
see that horn dislocate yore latest meiU. If you ain’t quite so 
set on going to the house you can flii.*'? 

“I wanna see Mrs. Dale,” persisted the lawyer in a stran- 
gled voice. “ I come to offer her money. I wanna do her a 
favour, can’t you understand?” 

“I can’t,” was the frank reply. “I can’t see you doing 
anybody a favour or giving away any money. C’mon, get 
a-going.” 

It was then that the lawyer lifted up his voice and shouted 
al'oud for Mrs. Dale. Undoubtedly Racey would have done 
Tweezy a mischief had he been given time. But unfortu- 
nately Molly Dale came to the lawyer’s rescue precisely as 
she had once come to the rescue of his partner in evil, the bull- 
dozer Lanpher. As it was Racey had contrived to pull Luke 
Tweezy partly from the saddle when Molly arrived and 
forced her defender to release his victim. 

Reluctantly Racey dropped the leg he held and allowed 
Tweezy to come to earth on his hands and knees. 

“What do you want?” inquired Molly, regarding Tweezy 
much as she would have regarded a poisonous reptile. 

“I want to see yore mother,” snuffled Tweezy, applying 
his sleeve to his nose. He had in the mixup smote his swell 
fork with the organ in question and it had begun to bleed. 
“Why?” 


236 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“I want to pay her money to go away quietly,” said 
Tweezy, switching from his sleeve to his handkerchief. 

j >> 

“Here she is,” interrupted Molly. “Tell her.” 

“How do, ma’am,” said Luke to the wet-eyed widow. “I 
guess it ain’t necessary for me to go through a lot of expla- 
nations with you. You know what’s what, arid you know 
we’ll take possession just as soon as the sheriff serves the 
eviction papers on you.” 

At this Racey Dawson made a noise in his throat. Molly 
laid cool fingers on his wrist. 

“Steady, boy, steady,” she whispered under her breath. 

Despite the seriousness of the moment Racey’s heart 
skipped a beat and the pleasantest shiver in the world ran 
about his body. “ Boy !” she had called him. “Boy.” Her 
hand was actually touching his own. He 

“I don’t want to be hard on you. Mis’ Dale,” resumed 
Luke, after an apprehensive glance at Racey Dawson. “I 
don’t like to be hard on anybody that’s sittin’ into a run of 
hard luck, but business is business, ma’am. You know that. 
And after all I’m — ^we’re only asking for what we’re by 
rights entitled to. We got title to this place fair and square, 
and ” 

“Title, huh?” struck in Racey, unable to keep silent. 
“Not yet you ain’t.” 

“S-s-sh,” breathed Molly, tightening her grip on his wrist. 

“It’s like I say. Mis’ Dale,” Luke Tweezy burred on from 
behind his handkerchief, “ I ain’t got any wish to add to yore 
troubles, and so I got my partner to agree for me to give you 
five hundred dollars cash money if you’ll pack up and clear 
out quiet and peaceful.” 

“Don’t you do it. Mis’ Dale!” urged Racey. “There’s 
a trick in that offer.” 

“They ain’t any trick!” contradicted Luke Tweezy, vehe- 
mently. “I just wanna save trouble, thassall.” 


DIPLOMACY 


237 


Save trouble ! That had been Lanpher’s reason for coming 
the day he rode through the garden. Save trouble, indeed. 

“If yo’re so shore the sheriff is going to serve those eviction 
papers,” said Racey as calmly as he could because of the 
warning pressure on his wrist, “if yo’re so shore why are 
you giving away five hundred.^” 

“Because I don’t like to be hard on Mis’ Dale. Then, 
again, I’ll admit we wanna get in here soon as we can.” 

“You admit it, huh? That’s a good one, that is. Don’t 
you do it. Mis’ Dale. You stand pat.” 

“I don’t want your five hundred dollars,” said Mrs. 
Dale. 

“Seven-fifty,” climbed up Tweezy. 

Mrs. Dale shook her head. “No.” 

“One thousand,” Tweezy raised his ante. 

“Lemme throw him out. Mis’ Dale?” begged Racey Daw- 
son. “Just lemme throw him out, and I’ll guarantee he’ll 
never bother you again.” 

Again Mrs. Dale shook her head, and the pressure on 
Racey’s wrist increased. “You mustn’t touch him,” said 
Mrs. Dale. “He’ll go.” 

“Think it over,” Tweezy blundered on. “One thousand 
dollars gratis cash money in yore hands if you’ll leave at 
once.” 

“I’ll wait awhile,” said Mrs. Dale. “Please go.” 

Luke Tweezy opened his mouth to speak. Racey broke 
from Molly’s detaining grasp and stepped between him and 
Mrs. Dale, and Tweezy closed his mouth without speaking. 

“You heard what she said,” Racey drawled, softly. “ Git.” 

And Tweezy got. 

“Do you think the sheriff will put us out?” asked Mrs. 
Dale, twisting a corner of her apron between her hands. 

“He’ll take all the time to it he can,” Racey evaded the 
direct reply. “But whatever happens don’t think of taking 
any offer like that of Tweezy ’s. It’s a trick, thassall. No 


238 


THE HEART OE THE RANGE 


matter who comes to you nor what he offers don’t you move 

till Well, any way, Judge Dolan and Jake Rule are with you 

from soda to hock, and they’ll do all they can to hold things 
at a stand-still till I can fix it all up. You must remember 
that I know what you dunno, and when I say that every- 
thing will end fine and daisy you better believe I know what 
I’m talking about.” 

Molly looked at him keenly. “Racey, that’s the third or 
fourth time you’ve said that. I wonder if you really have 
something up your sleeve.” 

“Of course I have,” Racey insisted. “You wait. You’ll 
see.” 

“What do you know? Tell us.” 

“Never mind, and I won’t. It might spoil everything if I 
told you. You just leave it to me.” 

He had definitely made his bluff. He would have to make 
good. And he no more knew how to make good in the busi- 
ness than the year-old baby busy with its toes. But ere this 
men have killed dragons and made wonders come to pass all 
for the sake of their ladies’ eyes. Men as prosaic and matter- 
of-fact as the puncher, Racey Dawson. Quite so. 

Half-an-hour after the departure of Luke Tweezy Mr. 
Saltoun and Tom Loudon rode in on lathered horses. They 
were, it seemed, journeying homeward from the 88 whither 
they had gone in an endeavour to persuade Lanpher and 
Tweezy to sell the Dale mortgage. 

“Tweezy, huh?” said Racey. “He’s just left here.” 

“He must ’a’ rode like the devil,” said Mr. Saltoun. “He 
was in the office with Lanpher when we left.” 

“I thought I noticed a feller off to the south of us as we 
come along,” observed Loudon. “He was just a-boilin’. I 
only saw him the once as he slid by the mouth of a draw. 
Looked like he was trying to keep out of sight. Rode a gray 
hoss.” 

“Tweezy rode a gray,” nodded Racey. 


DIPLOMACY 


239 


“Him, all right. What did he want here, Racey.^^” 

“Offered Mis’ Dale one thousand cold if she’d pull her 
freight.” 

“She ain’t gonna do it, is she?” demanded the alarmed 
Mr. Saltoun. 

Racey shook his head. “She’s gonna stick.” 

“She must. Hell, yes. Those papers of Luke’s are forged. 
I know they are.” 

“So does everybody else,” put in Tom Loudon, “but if 

something don’t turn up damn quick ” He broke off, 

shaking a dubious head. 

“Something will,” declared Racey, making his bluff a 
second time with an air of supreme confidence. 

“You know something, Racey,” prodded Mr. Saltoun who 
prided himself on his perspicacity. “Whadda you know?” 

“I ain’t telling it,” answered Racey, coolly. “I ain’t 
coming back to the ranch to-day, neither.” 

“Oh, you ain’t. Listen to the new owner, Tom.” 

“That’s all right,” said Racey. “If I’m going to do the 
world any good I’ve got to have a free hand.” 

“You can have two of ’em,” conceded Mr. Saltoun. “The 
bridle’s off.” 

“Aw right. I’ll take Swing Tunstall,” Racey hastened to 
say. 

“I meant yore own two hands,” demurred Mr. Saltoun. 

“I know you did, but I meant the other kind. Listen, do 
you want Lanpher and Tweezy to get this ranch?” 

“ it, no!” 

“Then gimme Swing Tunstall.” 

“Take him. Need anybody else? Wouldn’t you like all 
the rest of the outfit, and me, too?” 

“My Gawd, no. This is a job requirin’ brains.” 

“Say, lookit here, Racey ” 

“When you get to the ranch tell Swing to come along 
soon as he can,” interrupted Racey. “ I’ll be expecting him.” 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


MO 

Tuckety-tuck ! Tuckety-tuck! Somewhere beyond the 
cottonwood grove surrounding Moccasin Spring a galloping 
horse was coming in. A moment later horse and rider shot 
past the tail of the cottonwood grove, and bore down on the 
house. 

“Marie!” exclaimed Racey. 

“And riding one of my bosses,” observed Mr. Saltoun. 

At that instant Marie caught sight of the three men and 
swerved her mount toward them. 

“They said at the Bar S you was here,” panted the look- 
out, pulling up in front of Racey Dawson. “So I borrowed a 
fresh hoss and kep’ on. Somethin’s happened in Farewell, 
Racey. Swing Tunstall’s shot.” 

“Downed?” Racey did not usually jump at conclusions, 
but Swing Tunstall was his friend. 

Marie shook her tousled head. “Nicked — shoulder and 
leg. But it ain’t their fault he wasn’t rubbed out.” 

“Who’s responsible?” demanded Racey. 

“Doc Coffin.” 

“You said Their’.” 

“Honey Hoke bumped into Swing just as he went after his 
gun, so Swing couldn’t get his gun out a-tall. Swing said 
Honey grabbed his wrist, but Peaches Austin and Punch-the- 
breeze Thompson was on the other side in the way so none of 
the boys seen what happened to Swing exactly till after it 
had.” 

“Austin, Thompson, Hoke, and Coffin,” said Racey. 
“What began the fuss?” 

“Doc Coffin upset a glass of whiskey over Swing’s 
arm, and then cussed him for getting his arm in the 
way.” 

“And Swing called him a liar, huh?” 

“And a one, too,” elaborated Marie. 

“Put-up job.” Gruffly Mr. Saltoun gave his opinion. 

“Shore-” Tom Loudon nodded gravely. 


DIPLOMACY 241 

“Where are those four men now?” Racey asked, quietly, 
looking at Marie. 

“They were in the Starlight when I left town — and they 
werenH drinkin\’* 

“No, they wouldn’t be.” 

“And the sheriff and Kansas went to Dogville this morning, 
and the marshal is sick. I thought you ought to know. My 
Gawd, I thought you’d hear the news from somebody else be- 
fore I got here and go bustin’ in regardless, and ” 

“ I guess I’ll go in all right,” he told her with a slight smile, 
“but it won’t be regardless.” 

With that he turned on a spurred heel and crossed springily 
to where his horse stood. 

“Aw, the devil!” exclaimed Marie, looking helplessly 
at Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun. “And he’ll do it, 
too.” 

Then she “kissed” to her horse and rode into the cotton- 
wood grove for a drink at the spring. 

Racey, sticking foot in stirrup, found Molly Dale at his 
elbow. She was looking at him the way women do when 
they either don’t understand or think they understand only 
too well. 

“Who is that woman?” asked Molly Dale. 

“Huh?” Thus Racey, stupidly. He was thinking of his 
friend lying wounded in Farewell. “What woman you 
mean? . . . Oh, her, that’s Marie, she’s — she’s lookout 

in the Happy Heart.” 

“Oh, yes, Marie. I — I’ve seen you with her — one evening 
when you and she were crossing the street and I drove past. 
I — I, yes, indeed.” 

And as she spoke her eyes were very bright, and her figure 
was stiffer than the proverbial poker. Which was odd. And 
at the tail of her words she gave a stiff nod and hurried into 
the house. Which was odder. The species of nod and the 
hurry — both. 


242 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


But Racey was in no mood to speculate on the idiosyn- 
crasies of woman. Even the woman. So he topped his 
mount and rejoined Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun. They 
regarded him silently. 

“I guess,” said Racey, whirling an empty tobacco-bag by 
it’s draw-string, “I’ll borrow some of yore smokin’, Tom. 
I’m plumb afoot for tobacco at the present writing.” 

Tom Loudon handed over his pouch without a word. But 
Mr. Saltoun was fidgety. Unlike his son-in-law, he felt that 
he must speak. 

“Lookit here, Racey,” he said, hurriedly, “you ain’t going 
to Farewell alone, are you?” 

“Why, no, certainly not,” Racey replied, solemnly. “I’m 
going to send word to Yardly for the troops. Hell’s bells, 
there’s only four of them, man!” 

“Yes, well Who’s this? One of our boys?” 

But it was not one of “our” boys. It was Rack Slimson, 
the proprietor of the Starlight Saloon. But he was riding 
in from the direction of the Bar S. 

He rode soberly, as one bound on a journey of length. 
Even as Marie had done he glimpsed the three men and 
turned his horse toward them. Ten feet from the flank of 
Racey Dawson’s mount he pulled in and nodded. There was 
spite — spite and something else — in the gaze he fixed on 
Racey Dawson. 

“Yore friend’s hurt,” said he. “Got in a fight.” 

“Hurt bad?” asked Racey. 

“Not too bad. I’ve seen worse.” 

“Where’s he hurt?” 

Rack Slimson merely corroborated what Marie had said. 
So far he seemed to be telling the truth. And it was natural 
that there should be spite in his eyes. He had no cause to 
feel affection for either man. But there was the “some- 
thing else” besides the spite in those eyes. That was what 
interested Racey. 


DIPLOMACY 243 

“You come here special to tell me this?” said Racey, 
staring. 

“Not me,” denied Rack Slimson. “I was just passing by, 
and I thought I’d let you know.” 

“Just bein’ neighbourly, huh?” 

“I dunno as I’d go so far as to say that.” 

“Well, I’m obliged to you, Slimson. I’m shore a heap 
obliged to you. Is Swing Tuns tall being taken care of all 
right?” 

“He’s in Mike Flynn’s house. Joy Blythe is a-nursin’ 
him.” 

“Then I ain’t needed in Farewell right now.” Racey ’s 
tone was casual. 

Rack Slimson rose to the bait immediately. “He’s asking 
for you alia time,” said he. 

“He is, is he? Why didn’t you say so at first? 

“I didn’t know it was necessary.” 

“Which is true more ways than one. Lookit here, Slim- 
son, where might you happen to be going when you run into 
me so providential here at Moccasin Spring?” 

“I might be going most anywhere,” Rack Slimson 
replied with a fiash of temper. 

“No call to get het. Rack, no call to get het. What I’m 
asking is a fair question : Where might you be going to-day.” 

“Marysville.” 

“Ain’t you off the trail some?” 

“Shore I am, some. I remembered something I gotta see 
about at the 88 before I go to Marysville. That’s how I’m 
going west instead of south.” 

“When did you first remember this here something of 
yores?” 

“When I stopped at the Bar S for a drink of water.” 

“And after you’d just happened to remember this some- 
thing, I s’pose you just happened to ask where I was and they 
told you Moccasin Spring. Is that the how of it?” 


244 THE HEART OF THE RANGE 

“Yo’re a good guesser,” replied Rack Slimson with sar- 
casm. 

“Sometimes I do make a centre shot,” Racey admitted, 
modestly. 

It was then that Marie, wiping her mouth with the back of 
her hand, rode forth from the cottonwood grove. At sight 
of her Rack Slimson’s eyes opened wide, then they narrowed. 

“Hell,” he muttered, turning a slightly worried look on 
Racey. 

“^^at you hellin’ about?” Racey inquired, pleasantly. 

“You knowed about Swing Tunstall alia time,” com- 
plained Rack Slimson. 

“What makes you think so?” Racey sidled his horse 
closer to Rack. 

“She told you.” Thus Rack, bluntly. 

“‘She?’ What she you mean?” 

“Aw, her.” Rack Slimson jerked his head toward the 
approaching girl. 

“He’s got ’em again,” said Racey to Mr. Saltoun and Tom 
Loudon. “I don’t see any ‘her’ anywhere. Do you?” 

“Not me,” chorussed both men. 

“You see how yo’re mistaken. Rack,” pointed out Racey. 
“Yore eyes are deceivin’ you. Don’t you trust ’em. You 
don’t see any girls round here, exceptin’ maybe Miss Dale 
over at the house. You might ’a’ seen her according to 
whether she came to the kitchen door or not. But you ain’t 
seen any other girl here. And you better be shore you 
ain’t.” 

“Why had I?” blustered Rack Slimson, without, however, 
making any hostile motion with his hands. 

“Because I say so.” 

“Whatell’s it to you?” 

“All you have to do is say in Farewell that you saw Marie 
here at Dale’s and you’ll find out. I’ll even go farther than 
that. I’m tellin’ you. Rack, that if anybody finds out in 


DIPLOMACY 


245 


Farewell that Marie was here, or if any accident happens to 
her — any accident, y’understand — I’ll have to take it as 
evidence that you had to blat. Fair enough, huh?” 
j “ But supposing somebody else sees her and tells about it? ” 
protested Rack Slimson. 

“In that case yo’re out of luck,” was the unfeeling reply. 

; “But ” began again Rack Slimson. 

I “You might try prayer,” Racey interrupted. “It would 
I maybe help. You can’t tell.” 

The unhappy Rack Slimson looked toward Mr. Saltoun 
and Tom Loudon. But there was no aid for him in that 
quarter. In fact, both men eyed him with frank hostility. 

“So you see Marie is kept out of it.” Racey laid his final 
injunction on Rack as the girl in question joined them. 
“You don’t guess this girl is her, do you?” 

“Nun-no,” declared Rack, hastily. “ I don’t. She’s some- 
body else for all I care.” 

“That’s the way to talk,” Racey said, nodding approvingly. 
“You keep right on holding to those sentiments and I 
wouldn’t be surprised if you lived quite a long while.” 

Marie showed her teeth in a laugh. “I ain’t a-scared of 
any such breed of chunker as Rack Slimson,” said she, calmly. 
“I can manage him my own self. You goin’ back to Fare- 
well, Racey?” 

“Right now.” 

“Then I’ll be going with you.” 

“You’ll do no such a thing. There’s no sense in yore 
running into trouble thataway. You’ll come in to Farewell 
after me and from another direction.” 

“Shore, I was going to. I was only gonna ride along with 
you part way.” 

Racey shook his head. “Wouldn’t be sensible, that 
wouldn’t. Somebody might see you. You come along 
later like I told you. Me and Rack will travel together.” 

“I was goin’ to the 88,” protested Rack. 


246 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Yo’re mistaken,” Racey told him, firmly. “Yo’re going 
to Farewell — ^with me. Ain’t you?” 

“I s’pose so,” Rack Slimson capitulated. 

“Then c’mon. Get a-goin’.” 

Marie watched the two men ride away together. “Ain’t 
he the hellion?” she said, admiringly, to Tom and Old Salt. 
“Bound to have his own way if it kills him.” 

At this there was a slight sound from the direction of the 
garden. Marie and the two men turned to look. Trowel 
in hand Molly Dale was kneeling on one knee between the 
brook and a row of blue camass. But she was not doing 
any weeding. She was staring fixedly at Marie. While a 
man could breathe twice Molly stared at Marie, then she 
dropped her head and became very busy with the trowel. 

Marie’s sniff was audible at thirty feet. She picked up her 
reins and nodded to Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun. 

“See you later,” said she, and started her horse in the 
direction of Farewell. But she whirled him back before he 
had taken three steps. 

“I clean forgot he was yorehoss,” she said, apologetically, 
to Mr. Saltoun. “ I’ll have to go back to the Bar S first.” 

“Thassall right,” Mr. Saltoun made haste to assure her. 
“You take him right along. One of the boys can ride yore 
boss to town on the next trip an’ ride this one back.” 

“That will save me a lot of trouble,” said Marie, turning 
her bewildered mount a second time. 

“She ain’t ridin’ straight toward Farewell,” said Tom 
Loudon, rolling a slow cigarette. 

“Aw, she’s sensible,” yawned Mr. Saltoun. “She’ll do 

like Racey says all right. She must like him a lot. I 

Whatsa matter with you?^^ 

For Tom Loudon had contrived to make a long leg and give 
Mr. Saltoun a vigorous kick on the ankle. 

“I guess we’ll be goin’,” dodged Tom Loudon, and then 
took off his hat to Miss Dale. “So long, miss. If you — ^uh 


DIPLOMACY m 

i You know where the Bar S is in case — just in case, y* 

understand.” 

He touched his horse with the spur and moved off with as 
much dignity as a colonel of cavalry. Not so Mr. Saltoun. 
He had been kicked, and the kick hurt, and he was very red 
land ruffled in consequence. Swearing under his breath he 
followed his son-in-law. 

“Here,” he demanded, crowding his horse alongside, 
“what did yuh kick me for.?*” 

I Tom Loudon looked over his shoulder before replying. 
!The ranch-house was a hundred yards in the rear and Molly 
Dale was not in sight. He deliberately turned his head and 
i looked his father-in-law straight in the eye. “What did I 
kick you for.^^” he repeated. “I kicked you because you 
didn’t have any sense.” 

This was too much. “Huh.? Because I Lookit here, 

you ” 

“’Tsall right, ’tsall right. You didn’t have any sense. 
Here’s Molly Dale thinks Racey is the only fellah ever rode 
a cayuse, and you have to blat out so she can hear you, 
‘Marie must shore like him a lot’.” 

“Well, what of it.? I don’t see ” 

“You don’t.? Wait till I tell Kate.” 

“It ain’t necessary to tell my daughter,” Mr. Saltoun 
remonstrated, hurriedly. “I suppose my saying that about 
Marie might give Molly a wrong idea maybe about Racey. 
But how do you know she likes Racey? You been talking 
to her? Did she tell you so?” 

“I ain’t, and she didn’t. I been talking to Kate. She 
told me. Don’t ask me how she knows. She says she knows, 
and that’s enough for me. You can’t fool a woman in things 
like that.” 

“You can’t fool ’em in anything,” Mr. Saltoun corrobo- 
rated, bitterly. “ I shore oughtn’t to said that about Racey 
and Marie. I’ll go right back and tell Molly it ain’t so.” 


248 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


Mr. Saltoun started to wheel his horse, but Tom Loudon 
halted that manoeuvre. 

“You gotta let it go now,” said he. “If you tell her you 
didn’t mean what you said she shore will think it’s true.” 

“ We-ell, if you think I’d better not, I won’t,” Mr. Saltoun 
assented, doubtfully. “But I wouldn’t say anything to Kate 
if I was you.” 

“Then I won’t,” said Tom Loudon, his tongue in his 
cheek. 

“Where you think yo’re going Mr. Saltoun queried 
presently. “This ain’t the way to the ranch.” 

“I know it ain’t. It’s the way to Farewell.” 

‘ ‘ Whyf or Farewell ? ’ ’ 

“It’s just possible Racey may need a li’l help before he’s 
through with this job.” 

“You’re right,” Mr. Saltoun said, contritely. “I’ve been 
so took up with this Dale mortgage and the idea of Luke 
Tweezy and that skunk Lanpher getting this land that I 
ain’t give much thought to anything else. Of course Racey 
will need help, and you and I are the fellers to give it to 
him.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


STRATEGY 

R ACEY DAWSON and Rack Slimson, rising a hill 
on the way to Farewell, simultaneously turned their 
heads and looked at each other. Rack’s expression 
was dolefully sullen. Racey’s was hard and uncompromis- 
ing. 

“Who was it put you up to this?” asked Racey. 

“What?” 

“Coming out here after me.” 

“I didn’t come out after you, I tell you!” 

“Shore, shore,” soothed Racey, “I know all about that. 
Who put you up to it?” 

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about.” 

“The ignorance of some people,” said Racey, recalling 
sundry occasions when other folk had oddly failed to grasp 
his meaning. 

They rode onward silently. 

When they reached the southern slope of Indian Ridge, 
Racey headed to the east. A spirit of unease lit heavily 
upon the sagging shoulders of Rack Slimson. 

“You ain’t goin’ straight for Farewell,” he remarked at a 
venture. 

“I ain’t— no.” 

“I thought you was.” 

“I am — but not straight.” 

“Huh?” Rack Slimson wrinkled his forehead at this. 
“We’re goin’ in town from the side,” explained Racey 
Dawson. 


250 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


This, too, was a puzzler. “Why?” queried Rack Slimson. 

“So’s nobody will know we’re coming till we’re there.” 
The smile with which Racey garnished his answer was chilling 
to the soul of Mr. Slimson. 

“But I don’t see ” 

“You wouldn’t. I’ll tell you how it is all in words of one 
syllable. You and me are coming into town from the east ! 
where that draw is and those shacks behind the dance hall.. 
We’ll leave our bosses in the draw, and proceed, like they 
say in the army, on foot. Then you and me ” 

“But why me?” Rack Slimson desired to know. “What 
are you always putting ‘me’ in for?” 

“Because yo’re a-going with me. Rack, that’s why. Yo’re 
a-going with me while I’m hunting for Coffin and Honey Hoke i 
and Punch-the-breeze Thompson and Peaches Austin. Those | 
four will likely be together, see, and I wanna use you for a | 
breastwork sort of.” | 

“A breastwork!” cried the now thoroughly upset Mr. j 
Slimson. “A breastwork!” | 

“Shore a breastwork. I’ll shove you ahead of me into the ; 
saloon and if they — there’s four of ’em, y’understand — cut 
down on me you’ll be in the way.” 

“But they’ll down me!” 

“I’m counting on that.” 

“But ” 

“Aw, shut up, you skunk! You come out to Moccasin i 

Spring on purpose to get me to come to Farewell and be 
peaceably shot by Doc Coffin and his gang. Can’t tell me 
you didn’t. I know better.” 

“I didn’t! I didn’t! I ” ; 

“Aw right you didn’t. In that case you got nothing to 
scare you. If Doc and his outfit ain’t got any harsh thoughts 
against me they won’t shoot when we run up on ’em. That’ll 
prove yo’re telling the truth, and I’ll beg yore pardon. I’ll do 
more’n beg yore pardon. I’ll eat yore shirt an’ my saddle.” 


STRATEGY 


251 


Racey’s assurance that he would do the right thing if his 
suspicions proved unfounded did not appear to cheer Rack 
Slimson. 

i “I Lookit here,” he began, desperately, ‘‘can’t we fix 

I this here up some way? I dunno as ” 

“ Shore we can fix it up,” interposed Racey, heartily. “Go 
, after yore gun any time you feel like it. I been letting you 
keep it on purpose.” 

Rack Slimson did not accept the invitation. He had not 
the slightest desire to go after his gun. He was not fast 
i enough, and he knew it. 

“It ain’t necessary to do that,” said he. 

“Suit yoreself,” Racey told him calmly. “Hop into ac- 
tion any time you feel like it. Of course before we get 
to that draw outside Farewell where we’re gonna leave 
j our bosses I’ll have to take yore gun away. Later I 
! might be too busy to do it — and I can’t afford to take 
; every chance. Not with four or five men. You can see that 
I yoreself.” 

I Rack Slimson saw. He saw other things too. Oh, there 
was no warmth in the sunlight, and the sky was a drabby gray, 

! and he was filled with bitterness unutterable. 

“We’ll be at the draw some time soon,” suggested Racey 
i ten minutes later. 

j But Rack Slimson’s hands continued to remain in plain 
I sight, the while Rack gnawed a thin and bloodless lip. 
i When at long last the draw opened before them Racey 
i calmly reached over and removed the saloon-keeper’s six- 
i shooter. After satisfying himself that the weapon was fully 
i loaded he stuffed it down inside the waistband of his trousers. 
Then he buttoned the two lower buttons of his vest and 
pulled the garment in question over the protruding butt. 

For a space of time they rode the bottom of the draw. 
Where a few heavy willows grew about a tiny spring Racey 
pulled in. 


252 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“We’ll leave the cayuses here,” said he. “We’re right 
close in back of Marie’s shack.” 

They dismounted, tied the horses to separate willows, and 
climbed the side of the draw. 

“No hurry,” cautioned Racey, for Rack Slimson was show- 
ing signs of a nervous haste. “Besides, I want to pat you 
all over for a hideout.” 

Behind the blind end of Marie’s shack Rack Slimson 
submitted to being searched for concealed weapons. Racey 
found none, not even a pocket-knife. 

“Let’s go,” said Racey Dawson. “We’ll go to yore saloon 
first. And you pray hard that nobody sees us from the back 
window.” 

They diagonalled down past the stage company’s corral 
to the house next door to the Starlight. 

“They haven’t seen us yet,” Racey observed, cheerfully, to 
Rack Slimson whose wretched knees had been knocking to- 
gether ever since he had dismounted. “Slide over this way 
a li’l more. Rack. Now take off yore spurs.” 

Racey stooped and removed his own. And not for an in- 
stant did he lose the magic of the drop. As a matter of fact, he 
had kept Rack covered from the moment Rack set his boot- 
soles to earth. Rack’s spurs jingled on the ground. Racey 
let them lie. His own spurs he jammed each into a hip pocket. 

“I’ll have to be careful how I sit down now,” he remarked, 
jocularly, to Rack Slimson. “You ready? Aw right. You 
know the way to the Starlight’s back door.” 

The back door of the saloon was wide open. They entered 
on tiptoe, the proprietor in the lead. 

“Remember,” whispered Racey, when he discovered the 
back room to be empty, “remember, I’m right behind you. 
Keep on yore toes.” 

He held Rack Slimson by the belt and pushed him toward 
the door giving into the front room. This door was shut. 
They paused behind it. 


STRATEGY 


253 


“He oughta be along pretty soon,” complained a fretful 
voice that Racey recognized as belonging to Honey Hoke. 

“We don’t mind waiting,” chimed in Punch-the-breeze 
Thompson. 

“It’s the best thing we do.” This was big Doc Coffin 
speaking. 

The two behind the door heard a bottle-neck clink against 
the rim of a glass. 

“You better not take too much,” advised Thompson. 

“Aw, who’s takin’ too much?” flung back Honey Hoke. 

/ ^Well, you don’t see the rest of us touching a single drop, 
^o you? Speaking personal, I wouldn’t drown my insides 
with liquor when I’m due to go up against a proposition like 
Racey Dawson.” 

Here was praise indeed. Racey thumbed Rack Slimson 
in the ribs. Rack turned his head and saw that Racey was 
grinning. Rack grew even more spineless. 

“You see,” pointed out Racey in a sardonic whisper. 
“ Yo’re up against the pure quill, feller.” 

Which remark at any other time would have been in the 
worst possible taste, but license is extended to men in peril 
of their lives. 

“They’re at the table in the corner beside the bar, this 
end, ain’t they?” resumed Racey. “Ain’t it lucky the door 
opens that way?” 

Then he was silent for a time while he strove to catch the 
accents of Peaches Austin. He wanted to know if they were 
all four at the one table. But Peaches was either not talking 
or elsewhere. A moment later the question was answered 
for him by Honey Hoke. 

“If he slips by Peaches without Peaches seein’ him ” 

began Honey. 

“Aw, hownell can he?” sneered Doc Coffin. “They’s 
Peaches camped down in front of the blacksmith shop right 
where he can see the trail alia way down Injun Ridge. A 


254 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


dog couldn’t get past Peaches without being seen, let alone 
a two-legged man on a four-legged hoss.” 

“S’pose he goes round the ridge,” offered the doubter, un- 
consciously hitting the nail on the head. 

“He won’t,” declared the confident Doc. “He’ll come 
boiling right in like he owned the place. Don’t you lose no 
sleep over that.^^ 

“Maybe Rack couldn’t find him,” pursued Honey Hoke, 
and an answering quiver ran through the frame of Rack 
Slimson. 

“Rack will find him all right,” said Punch-the-breeze 
Thompson. 

“He might be suspicious of Rack, alia same,” Honey Hoke 
wavered on. 

“Not the way Rack will tell him. Didn’t we fix it up just 
what Rack was to say and all before he went? Shore we did. 
He won’t make no mistake. Rack won’t. You’ll see.” 

“And anyway,” broke in Doc Coffin, “they’s four of us 
to take care of any mistakes.” 

At which the three laughed loudly. 

“I hope,” Racey whispered in Rack’s rather grimy left 
ear, “I hope you heard all those fellers said. Proves I was 
right, don’t it? Nemmine nodding yore head more’n once. 
Hold still. Yo’re doin’ fine. Yep, I’m shore glad we 
stood here a-listenin’ like we have. Makes me feel a heap 
easier in my mind about you. Otherwise I might always 
have had a doubt I did right. I’d have been shore, y’ under- 
stand, but I wouldn’t have been dead shore.” 

At which the unfortunate Rack came within an eyewink 
of fainting. As it was his stomach seemed to roll over and 
over. He began to feel a little sick. 

“The bartender now,” went on Racey after a moment, 
“is he likely to mix into this?” 

“I dunno,” breathed Rack. 

“ Who is he? I ain’t been in yore place for some time.” 


STRATEGY 


255 


Rack told him the name of the bartender, and Racey 
nodded quite as if Rack were facing him and could see every- 
thing he did. 

“Then that’s all right,” whispered Racey. “I know that 
feller. He’s a friend of Mike Flynn’s. He won’t do anythin’ 
hostyle. Let’s go right in. Open the door. G’on, damn 
yore soul, or I’ll blow you apart!” 

Rack Slimson opened the door and immediately en- 
deavoured to spring to one side. But he reckoned not on the 
strength of Racey Dawson. The latter swung Rack back 
into place between himself (Racey Dawson) and the table 
at which Doc CoflSn and his two friends were sitting. 

It was a painfully surprised trio that confronted Racey 
and his unwilling barricade. The bartender was likewise 
surprised. He immediately fell flat on the floor. Not so the 
three men at the table. They sat quite still and stared at the 
man and the gun behind the body of their friend Rack Slim- 
son. They said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say. 

“I hear you were expectin’ me. Doc,” drawled Racey, his 
eyes bright with cold anger. “Whatsa matter?” he added. 
“Ain’t three of you enough to take care of any mistakes?” 

At which Doc Coffin’s right hand flashed downward. 
Racey drove an accurate bullet through Doc Coffin’s mouth. 
The bullet ranging upward, and making its exit through the 
parietal bone, let in the light on Doc’s hitherto darkened 
intellect in more ways than one. 

Doc Coffin’s forefinger, tightening convulsively on the 
trigger of its wearer’s sixshooter, sent an unaimed shot down- 
ward. But previous to embedding itself in a floor board, 
the bullet passed through Honey Hoke’s foot. This disturbed 
Honey’s aim to such an extent that instead of shooting Racey 
through the head he shot Rack through the hat. 

Racey, attending strictly to his knitting, bored Honey 
Hoke with a bullet that removed the top of the second 
knuckle of Honey’s right hand, shaved a piece from the wrist 


256 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


bone, and then proceeded to thoroughly lacerate most of the 
muscles of the forearm before finally lodging in the elbow. 
Thus was Honey Hoke rendered innocuous for the time 
being. He was not a two-handed gunfighter. 

As yet Punch-the-breeze Thompson had remained strictly 
neutral. His hands were on the table top, and had been from 
the beginning. 

“It’s yore move, Thompson,” Racey said with significance. 

“Then I’ll be goin’,” said Thompson, calmly. “See you 
later — maybe.” 

So saying he rose to his feet, turned his back on Racey, and 
walked out of the place. Racey had no illusions as to 
Thompson, but he obviously could not shoot him in the back. 
He let him go. Watching from a window he saw Thompson 
go to the hitching-rail in front of the saloon, untie his horse, 
mount, and ride away northward. 

And the blacksmith shop in front of which Peaches Austin 
was supposed to be on guard lay at the south end of the street. 
Where, then, was Thompson going? 

“Where’s he goin’?” he demanded of the now wriggling 
Rack Slimson. 

“Huh? Who? Punch? I dunno.” 

“Where’s Jack Harpe?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Yo’re a liar. Where is he?” 

“I dunno! I dunno! I tell you! Yo’re gug-gug-chokin’ 
me!” 

“Yo’re lying again. If I was choking you you couldn’t 
talk. Yo’re talkin’, ain’t you? Where’s Jack Harpe?” 

“I dud-dud-dutmo,” insisted Rack Slimson, his teeth chat- 
tering as Racey shook him. 

“Is he in town?” 

“I dud-dunno.” 

“Is Thompson going after him, do you think?” 

“ I dud-dunny-dunno ! ” 


STRATEGY 


257 


“I guess maybe you don’t, after all,” Racey said, disgust- 
edly, flinging the unfortunate saloon-keeper from him with 
such force that the fellow skittered quite across the floor and 
sat down in the washpan into which the bartender was ac- 
customed to throw the broken glassware. 

“Ow-wow!” It was a hearty, full-lunged howl that Rack 
Slimson uttered as he bounded erect and clutched at his 
trousers. 

Racey ’s eyes brightened at the sight. “ Y* oughta known 
better than to sit down in all that glass. I could ’a’ told you 
you’d get prickles in you. Why don’t you stand still and let 
yore barkeep pick ’em out for you? You can get at most of 
the big pieces with yore fingers,” he added to the bartender, 
who was gingerly emerging on all fours round the end of the 
bar. “ And the little ones you can dig out with a sharp knife. 
Yep, Rack, old-timer. I’ll bet you won’t carry any more 
messages on horseback for a while.” 

There was a sudden crashing thud at the back of the room. 
Honey Hoke had fallen out of his chair. Now he lay on the 
floor, his legs drawn up and the back of his frowsy head resting 
against a rung of the chair in which still sat the dead body 
of Doc Coffin. 

Racey went to Honey and spread him out in a more con- 
fortable position. 

Calloway and Judge Dolan entered the saloon together. 

“We thought we heard shootin’ ” began Calloway, staring 

in astonishment at the grotesque posture Rack Slimson had 
assumed the better to endure the ministrations of the bar- 
tender. 

“We heard shootin’, all right,” said Judge Dolan, his glance 
sweeping past Slimson and the bartender to the rear of the’' 
room. 

“What’s happened, Racey?” queried Dolan, striding 
forward. “Both of ’em cashed?” 

Racey shook his head. “Doc Coffin passed out,” said he 


258 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


in a hard, dry voice. “But Honey Hoke’s heart is heatin’ 
regular enough. Guess he’s only fainted from loss of blood.” 

The Judge nodded. “They do that sometimes.” Here he 
looked at Doc Coffin’s body lying humped over the table, an 
arm hanging free, the head resting on the table-top. 

“Were they rowin’ together.^” was the Judge’s next ques- 
tion. 

Racey gave him a circumstantial account of the shooting 
and the incidents that had led up to it. The Judge heard 
him through without a word. 

“They asked for it,” said he, when Racey made an end. 
“ ’Sfunny Punch didn’t pick up a hand. Tell you what you 
do, Racey: You come to my office in about a hour. Nothing 
to do with this business. I got no fault to find with what you 
done. Even break and all that. Something else I wanna 
see you about. Huh? What’s that, Piggy?” 

The place was beginning to fill up with inquisitive folk from 
the vicinity, and Racey decided to withdraw. He went out 
the back way. Closing the door, he set his shoulders against 
it, and remained motionless a moment. His eyes were on the 
distant hills, but they neither saw the hills nor anything that 
lay between. 

“I had to do it,” he muttered, bitterly. “I didn’t want to 
down him. But I had to. They were gonna down me if 
they could. And he — they — ^they asked for it.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE QUARREL 

E Peaches, ain’t you afraid of gettin’ sunburnt?” 

Peaches Austin, gambler though he was, flickered his 
eyelashes. He was startled. He had not had the 
slightest warning of Racey Dawson’s approach. 

“Didn’t hear me, did you?” Racey continued, conversa- 
tionally. “I didn’t want you to. That’s why I kept my 
spurs off and sifted round from the back of the blacksmith 
shop. And you were expecting me to come scampering 
down the trail over Injun Ridge, weren’t you? Joke’s on 
you. Peaches, sort of.” 

Still Peaches said nothing. He sat and gazed at Racey 
I Dawson. 

“Don’t be a hawg,” resumed Racey. “Move over and 
lemme sit down, too. That’s the boy. Now we’re both 
comfortable. Peaches, you mean to sit there and tell me you 
didn’t hear any shooting up at the Starlight a while back?” 

Peaches Austin wetted his lips with the tip of a careful 
tongue. “ I heard shootin’,” he admitted, stiff-lipped. 

“And what did you think it was?” 

“I didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t you see Thompson ride away?” 

“Shore.” 

“And didn’t you think anything about that, either?” 
“Oh, I thought, but ” 

. “ But you had yore orders to sit here and wait for li’l Willie. 
And you always obey orders. That it. Peaches?” 

“What are you drivin’ at?” 

259 


260 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Yo’re always asking me that. Peaches. Try something 
new for a change. Look.” 

Racey extended a long arm past Peaches’ nose and pointed 
up the street toward the Starlight Saloon. A man was back- 
ing out through the doorway. Another followed, walking 
forward. Between them they were carrying a third man. 
The hat of the third man was over his face. His arms, which 
hung down, jerked like the arms of a doll. Even at that 
distance Peaches could see that there was no life in the third 
man. 

“That’s Doc CoflBn,” Racey murmured without rancour. 
“I wonder where they’re taking him? He used to bach with 
Nebraska Jones, didn’t he? I guess that’s where they’re 
taking him to. Yep, they’ve gone round the corner of the 
stage company’s corral.” 

“Where’s Honey?” queried Peaches in a still, small voice. 

“In the Starlight. He ain’t hurt bad. Foot and arm. 
Lucky, huh?” 

Peaches Austin considered these things a moment. “Doc 
Coffin was reckoned a fast man,” he said in the tone of one 
who, after adding up a column of figures, has found the cor- 
rect total, “ and Honey Hoke wasn’t none slow himself. And 
you got ’em both.” 

“I didn’t get ’em both,” corrected Racey. “Honey is 
only wounded.” 

“Same thing. You could ’a’ got him if you wanted to. 
Yo’re lucky, that’s what it is. Yo’re lucky. And you been 

lucky from the beginning. I ain’t superstitious, but ” 

Here he lied. Like most gamblers Peaches was sadly super- 
stitious. He looked at Racey, and there was something 
much akin to wonder on his countenance. He shook his 
head and was silent a long thirty seconds. “Yo’re too 
lucky for me — I quit,” he finished. 

“How much?” 

“Complete. I tell you, I don’t buck no such luck as 


THE QUAKREL 261 

yores no longer. I’ll never have none myself if I do. I’m 
goin’.” 

Peaches x\ustin got to his feet and walked across the 
street to the hotel. Twenty minutes later Racey, sitting 
on the bench in front of the blacksmith shop, saw him issue 
from the hotel, carrying a saddle, packed saddlebags, and 
cantenas, blanket and bridle, and go to the hotel corral. 

Within three minutes Peaches Austin rode out from behind 
the hotel. As he passed the blacksmith shop he said “So 
long” to Racey. 

“ See you later,” nodded that serene young man. 

“I hope not,” tossed back Peaches, and rode on down the 
trail that leads over Indian Ridge to Marysville and the south. 

Racey watched him out of town. Then he went to Mike 
; Flynn’s to see and, if it were possible, to cheer up his wounded 
friend. Swing Tunstall. But he was not allowed to see him. 
Swing, it appeared, had been given an opiate by Joy Blythe, 
who was acting as nurse, and she refused to awaken her 
patient for anybody. So there. 

Racey went to the Happy Heart to while away the re- 
mainder of the hour set by Judge Dolan. The bartender 
greeted him respectfully and curiously. So did several other 
men he knew. For that respect and that curiosity he under- 
stood the reason. It lay on a bunk in Nebraska Jones’s 
shack. 

No one asked him to drink. People are usually a little 
backward in social intercourse with a citizen who has just 
killed his fellowman. Of course in time the coolness wears 
off. In this case the time would be short. Doc Coflin having 
been one of those that more or less encumber the face of the 
earth. But for the moment Racey felt his ostracism and 
resented it. 

He set down his drink half drunk and walked out of the 
Happy Heart. 


^62 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“See anything of Luke Tweezy lately? ” asked Judge Dolan 
when Racey was sitting across the table from him in the 
Judge’s office. 

“Saw him to-day.” 

“Where?” 

“Moccasin Spring.” 

Judge Dolan nodded and rasped a hand across his stubbly 
chin. “Luke is in town now,” said he. 

“I ain’t lost any Luke Tweezys,” observed Racey, looking 
up at the ceiling. 

“I wonder how long Luke is figuring on staying in town,” 
went on Judge Dolan, sticking like a stamp to his original ! 
subject. 

“Nothing to me.” 

“It might be. It might be. You never can tell about 
them things, Racey.” ^ 

Racey Dawson’s eyes came down from the ceiling. He 
studied the Judge’s face attentively. What was Dolan 
driving at? Racey had known the Judge for several years, 
and he was aware that the more indirect the Judge became in 
his discourse the more important the subject matter was 
likely to be. 

“No,” said Racey, willing to bite, “you never can tell.” 

“We was talking one day about a feller making mistakes.” 
The tangent was merely apparent. 

“Yep,” acquiesced Racey. “We were saying Luke Tweezy 
made a good many.” 

“Something like that, yeah. You run across any of 
Luke’s mistakes yet, Racey? ” 

Racey shook his head. “No.” 

“Did you go to Marysville?” 

“Why for Marysville?” 

“Luke Tweezy lives in Marysville.” 

“And you think there’s somebody in Marysville would 
talk?” 


THE QUARREL 263 

Judge Dolan looked pained. “I didn’t say so,” he was 
quick to remark. 

‘T know you didn’t, but ” 

“I don’t guess they’s many folks in Marysville know much 
about Luke — ^no, not many. Luke is careful and clever, 
damn clever. But they’s other things besides folks which 
might have useful information.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. A gent, a lawyer anyway, keeps a lot of papers in 
his safe as a rule. Sometimes them papers make a heap 
; interesting readin’.” The Judge paused and regarded Racey 
coolly. 

“They might prove interesting reading, that’s a fact,” 
drawled Racey. 

“Now I ain’t suggestin’ anything,” pursued Judge Dolan. 

^ ‘T couldn’t on account of my oath. But it ain’t so Gawd- 
awful far from Farewell to Marysville.” 

, ' “It ain’t too far.” 

: “ I got a notion Luke Tweezy will find important business 

i to keep him here in Farewell the next four or five days.” 

“I wonder what kind of a safe Luke has got,” murmured 
Racey. 

“Damfino,” said the Judge. “You know anything 
about dynamite — ^how it’s handled, huh?” 

“Shore, handle it carefully.” 

“ I mean how to prepare a fuse and detonator and stick it 
in the cartridge. You know how?” 

“I helped a miner man once for a week. Shore I know. 
You cut the fuse square-ended. Stick the square end into 
the cap until it touches the fulminate, and crimp down 
the copper shell all round with a dull knife to hold the 
fuse. Then you make a hole in the end of the cartridge 
and ” 

“I guess you know yore business, Racey,” interrupted 
Judge Dolan. “You’ll find a package on that shelf by the 


264 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


door. Handle it carefully. I’m glad you dropped in, Racey, 
Nice weather we’re having.” 

“But there are some people about due for a cold wave,’* 
capped Racey, stopping on his way out to take the package 
from the shelf and wink at Judge Dolan. 

The wink was not returned. But the Judge’s tongue may 
have been in his cheek. He was a most human person, was 
Judge Dolan of Farewell. 

Racey, handling the package with care, went back to the 
draw where he had left the two horses. In the draw he 
opened the package. It contained six sticks of dynamite and 
the necessary detonators and fuse. 

“Good old Judge,” said Racey, admiringly, and rewrapped 
the dynamite, the detonators, and the fuse with even more 
care than he had employed in unwrapping them. 

He rolled the package into his slicker and tied down the 
slicker behind the cantle of his saddle. Untying the two 
horses he mounted his own and, leading the other, rode to 
the hotel corral. 

Bill Lainey was only too glad to lend him a fresh horse and 
a bran sack. 

It was dusk when he dismounted at the Dale corral. There 
was a lamp in the kitchen. Its rays shone out through the 
open door and made a rectangle of golden light on the dusty 
earth. Molly was standing at the kitchen table. She was 
stirring something in a bowl. She did not turn her head 
when he came to the door. 

“Evenin’, Molly,” said Racey. 

“Good evening.” Just that. 

“Uh. Yore ma around?” 

“She’s gone to bed.” Still the dark head was not raised. 

He misunderstood both her brevity and the following 
silence. He left his hat on the washbench outside the door 
and stepped into the kitchen. 

“Don’t take it so to heart, Molly,” he said, awkwardly. 


THE QUARREL 265 

“ It’s hard, but Shucks, lookit, I’ve got something to tell 

you.” 

In very truth he had something to tell her but he had not 
meant to tell her so soon. 

“Lemme take care of you, Molly — dear. You know I 
love you, and ” 

“Stop!” Molly turned to him an expressionless face. 

I She looked at him steadily. “You say you love me?” she 
j went on. 

; “ Shore I say it.” He was plainly puzzled at her reception 

I of what he had said. Girls did not act this way in books. 

“How about that — that other girl? Marie, I think her 
name is.” 

“What about her?” 

“A good deal.” 

“What has she got to do with my loving you, I’d like to 
i: know?” 

I “ She loves you.” 

|i “Marie? Loves me? Yo’re crazy!” ^ 

“Oh, am I? If she hadn’t loved you do you think for one 
minute she’d come riding all the way out here to give you a 
warning?” 

! “Marie and I are friends,” he admitted. “But there ain’t 
any law against that.” 

[ “None at all.” Molly’s eyes dropped. Her head turned 
t back. She resumed her operations with a spoon in the bowl. 

“Lookit here, Molly ” 

“Don’t you call me Molly.” Her tone was as lacking in 
; expression as was her face. 

I “But you’ve got to listen to me!” he insisted, desperately. 
“I tell you there ain’t anything between Marie and me.” 

“Then there ought to be.” Thus Molly. Womanlike 
she yearned to use her claws. 

“But ” 

“Oh, I’ve heard all about your carryings on with that — 


266 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


creature; how you talk to her, and people have seen you 
walking with her on the street. I saw you myself. Yester- 
day when Mis’ Jackson drove out here to buy three hens she 
told me when the girl was arrested and fined for trying to 
murder a man you stepped up and paid her fine. Did you? ” 

“I did. But ” 

“There aren’t any buts! You’ve got a nerve, you have, 
making love to me after running round with that wretched 
hussy!” 

“She ain’t a hussy!” denied the exasperated Racey, who 
was always loyal to absent friends. “She’s all right. Just 
because she happens to be a lookout in the Happy Heart 
ain’t anything against her. It don’t give you nor anybody 
else license to insult her.” 

This was too much. Not content with confessing his 
friendship for the girl, he was standing up for her. Molly 
whirled upon him. 

“Go!” Tone and business could not liave been excelled 
by Peg WoflSngton herself. 

Racey went. 

“What’s the matter?” queried a sleepy voice from the 
doorway giving into an inner room, as Racey’s spurred heels 
jingled past the washbench. “What’s goin’ on? Who was 
here? What you yelling about, anyway?” 

“Racey was here, Ma,” said Molly. 

“Seems to me you made an uncommon racket about it,” 
grumbled her mother, plodding into the kitchen in her slip- 
pers. 

Her gray hair was all in strings about her face. Her eyes 
and cheeks were puffed with sleep. She had pulled a quilt 
round her shoulders over her nightdress. Now she gave 
the quilt a hitch up and sat down in a chair. 

“Make me a cup o’ coffee, will you, Molly?” said Mrs. 
Dale. “My head aches sort of. I hope you didn’t have 
a fight with Racey Dawson.” 


267 


THE QUARREL 

“Well, we didn’t quite agree,” admitted Molly, snapping 
shut the cover of the coffee-mill and clamping the mill be- 
tween her knees. “ I don’t like him any more, Ma.” 

“And after he’s helped us so! I was counting on him to 
fix up this mortgage business! Whatever ’s got into you, 
Molly?” 

“He’s been running round with that awful lookout girl at 
the Happy Heart.” 

“Is that all?” yawned Mrs. Dale, greatly relieved. “I 
thought it might have been something serious.” 

“It is serious! What right has he to ” 

“Why hasn’t he? You ain’t engaged to him.” 

“I know I’m not, but he — I — ^you ” Molly began to 

flounder. 

“Has he ever told you he loved you?” Mrs. Dale in- 
quired, shrewdly. 

“Not in so many words, but ” 

“But you know he does. Well, so do I know he does. I 
knew it soon as you did — before, most likely. Don’t you fret, 
Molly, he’ll come back.” 

“No, he won’t. Not now. I don’t want him to.” 

“ Then who’s to fix up this mortgage business with Tweezy, 
I’d like to know? I declare, I wish I’d taken that lawyer’s 
offer. We’d have something then, anyhow. Now we’ll 
have to get out without a nickel. Oh, Molly, what did you 
quarrel with Racey for? ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


BURGLARY 

M erely because he believed that the well-known 
all was over between Molly Dale and himself, 
Racey did not relinquish his plans for the future. 

He rode to Marysville as he had intended. That is, he 
rode to the vicinity of Marysville. For, arriving at a hill' 
five miles outside of town in the broad of an afternoon, he 
stopped in a hollow under the cedars and waited for night, i 
Daylight was decidedly not appropriate for the act he con- 1 
templated. 

“I wonder,” he muttered, as he lay with his back braced 
against a tree and stared at the bulge in his slicker, “ I wonder 
if I ought to use all them sticks at once. I never heard that 
miner man say how much of an argument a safe needed. I 
s’pose I better use ’em all.” 

Luke Tweezy was a bachelor. His office was in his four-- 
room house, and he did not employ a housekeeper. Further 
than this, Racey Dawson knew nothing of the lawyer’s 
establishment. But he believed that his knowledge was 
sufficient to serve his purpose. 

About midnight Racey Dawson removed himself, his 
horse, and his dynamite from the hollow on the hill to where a 
lone pine grew almost directly in the rear of and two hundred 
yards from the residence of Luke Tweezy. He had selected 
the tall and lonely pine as the best place to leave his horse 
because, should he be forced to run for it, he would have t? 
against the stars a plain landmark to run for. He thor- ■ 
oughly expected to be forced to run. Six sticks of dynamite | 


BURGLARY 

letting go together would arouse a cemetery. And Marysville 
was a lively village. 

Racey, taking no chances on the Lainey horse stampeding 
at the explosion, rope-tied the animal to the trunk of the pine. 
After which he removed his spurs, carefully unwrapped the 
dynamite and stuck three sticks in each hip-pocket. The 
caps, in their little box, he put in the breast-pocket of his 
shirt. With the coil of fuse in one hand and the bran sack 
given him by Lainey in the other he walked toward the 
house of Tweezy. 

The house was of course dark. Nor were there any lights 
in the irregular line of houses stretching up and down this 
side of the street. The neighbours had apparently all gone to 
bed. Through an opening between two houses Racey saw a 
brightly lighted window in a house an eighth of a mile away. 
That would be Judge Allison’s house. The Judge, then, was 
awake. Two hundred and twenty yards was not a long 
distance even for a portly man like Judge Allison to cover at 
speed. And Racey had known Judge Allison to move briskly 
on occasion. 

Racey, moving steadily ahead, slid past someone’s barn 
and opened up a view of the dance hall. It had previously 
been concealed from his sight by the high posts and rails of 
three corrals. The dance hall was going full blast. At least 
all the windows were bright with hght. He was too far away 
to hear the fiddles. 

The dance hall! He might have known it would still be 
operating at midnight. But it was almost twice as far from 
the Tweezy house to the dance hall as it was from the Judge’s 
house to Tweezy ’s. That was something. Indeed it was a 
great deal. But he would have to work fast. All the 
neighbours would come bouncing out at the crash of the 
explosion. 

Racey paused to flatten an ear at the kitchen door. He 
heard nothing, and tiptoed along the wall to the window of 


270 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


the room next the kitchen. The ground plan of the house 
was almost an exact square. There was a room in each 
angle. The office, which Racey knew contained the safe, 
was diagonally across from the kitchen. 

Racey, halting at the window of the room next the kitchen, 
was somewhat surprised to find it open. He stuck in his 
head and saw a faint glow beyond the half -closed door of the 
office. The glow seemed to be brighter near the floor. 
Racey listened intently. He heard a faint grumble and now 
and then a squeak. 

He crouched beneath the window and removed his boots. 
Then he crawled over the sill and hunkered down on the un- 
carpeted floor. The floor boards did not creak. Still 
crouching, his arms extended in front of him, he made his 
way silently across the room, skirting safely in the process 
two chairs and a table, and stood upright behind the crack of 
the door. 

Looking through the crack he perceived that the glow he 
had seen from the window emanated from a tin can pierced 
with several holes. The dim, uncertain fight revealed the 
figure of a tall and hatless man kneeling beside the safe. The 
man’s back was toward the lighted tin can. One of the tall 
man’s hands was slowly turning the knob of the combination. 
The side of the man’s head was pressed against the front of 
the safe near the combination. Racey could not see the 
man’s face. 

Across the window of the room two blankets had been 
hung. The door into the other front room was open. Then 
suddenly the doorway was no longer a black void. A man 
stood there — a fat man with a stomach that hung out over 
the waistband of his trousers. There was something very 
familiar about the figure of that fat man. 

The fat man leaned against the doorjamb and pushed back 
his wide black hat. The fight in the tin can illumined his 
countenance dimly. But Racey’s eyes were becoming ac- 


BURGLARY 


271 


customed to the half darkness. He was able to recognize 
Jacob Pooley — ^Fat Jakey Pooley, the register of the district, 
whose home was in Piegan City. 

“You ain’t as fast as you used to be,” observed Fat Jakey 
in a soft whisper. 

“Shut up!” hissed the kneeling man, and turned his face 
for an instant toward Fat Jakey, so that the light shone upon 
his features. 

It was Jack Harpe. 

“What’s biting your ear?” Fat Jakey asked, good- 
naturedly. 

“I’ve told you more’n once to let what’s past alone,” 
grumbled Jack Harpe. 

“Hell, there’s nobody around.” 

“Nemmine whether they is or not. You get out of the 
habit.” 

“Rats,” sneered Fat Jakey. 

“What was that?” Jack Harpe’s figure tautened in a 
flash. 

“Rats,” repeated Fat Jakey. 

“I thought I heard something,” persisted Jack Harpe. 

“You heard rats,” chuckled Fat Jakey. “You’re nervous, 
that’s what’s the matter, or else you ain’t able to open the 
safe.” 

“I can open the safe all right,” growled Jack Harpe, bend- 
ing again to his work. 

“I wonder what he did hear,” Racey said to himself. “I 
thought I heard something, too.” 

Whatever it was he did not hear it again. 

“There she is,” said Jack Harpe, suddenly, and threw open 
the safe door. 

It was at this precise juncture that a voice from the dark- 
ness behind Fat Jakey said, “Hands up!” 

Oh, it was then that events began to move with celerity. 
Fat Jakey Pooley ducked and leaped. Jack Harpe kicked 


£72 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


the tin can, the candle fell out and rolled guttering in a quar- 
ter circle only to be extinguished by one of Fat Jakey’s flying 
feet. 

There was a slithering sound as the blankets across the 
window were ripped down, followed by a scraping and a 
heaving and a grunting as two large people endeavoured to 
make their egress through the same window at the same time. 

“So that window was open alia time,” thought Racey as he 
prudently waited for the owner of the voice in the other room 
to discover himself. But this the voice’s owner did not im- 
mediately do. Racey could not understand why he did not 
shoot while the two men were struggling through the window. 
Lord knows he had plenty of time and opportunity. 

Even after Jack Harpe and Fat Jakey had reached the 
outer air and presumably gone elsewhere swiftly, there was 
no sound from the other room. Racey, his gun ready, 
waited. 

At first his impulse had been incontinently to flee the 
premises as Jack and Jake had done. But a saving second 
thought held him where he was. It was more than possible 
that the mysterious fourth man had designs on the contents 
of the safe. In which event 

Racey stood pat. 

He heard no sound for at least a minute after Jack and 
Jake had left, then he heard a soft swish, and a few stars 
which had been visible through the upper half of the window 
were blotted out. The blankets were being readjusted. 

A match was struck and a figure stooped for the candle 
that had been dashed out by the foot of Fat Jakey Pooley. 
A table shielded the figure from Racey. Then the figure 
straightened and set the flaring match to the candle end. 
And the face that bent above the light was the face of one 
he knew. 

“Molly!” he whispered, and slipped from his ambush. 

At which Molly dropped candle and match and squeaked 


BURGLARY 


273 


in affright. But her scare did not prevent her from drawing 
a sixshooter. He heard the click of the hammer, and whis- 
pered desperately, “Molly ! Molly! It’s me! Racey!” 

He struck a match and retrieved the candle and lit it 
quickly. By its light he saw her staring at him uncertainly. 
Her eyes were bright with conflicting emotions. Her six- 
shooter still pointed in his general direction. 

“ Put yore gun away,” he advised her. “ We’ve got no time 
to lose. Hold the candle for me ! Put it in the can first ! ” 

Automatically she obeyed the several commands. 

He knelt before the open safe and, beginning at the top 
shelf, he stuffed into his bran sack every piece of paper the 
safe contained. Besides papers there were two sixshooters 
and a bowie. These he did not take. 

When the safe was clean of papers Racey tied the mouth 
of the bran sack, took Molly by the hand, and blew out the 
candle. 

“C’mon,” he said, shortly. “We’ll be leavin’ here now.” 

Towing her behind him he led her to the window of the rear 
room. Holding his hat by the brim he shoved it out through 
the window. No blow or shot followed the action. He 
clapped the hat on his head, and looked out cautiously. He 
satisfied himself that the coast was clear and flung a leg over 
the sill. 

When he had helped out Molly he gave her the sack to 
hold and pulled on his boots. 

“Where’s yore hoss.?” he whispered. 

“I tied him at the corner of the nearest corral,” was the 
answer. 

“C’mon,” said he and took her again by the hand. 

They had not gone ten steps when she stumbled and fell 
against him. 

“Whatsa matter.?” 

“Nothing,” was the almost breathless reply. “I’m — ^I’m 
all right. I just stepped on a sharp stone.” 


274 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ Yore shoes ! ” he murmured, contritely. “ I never thought. 
Why didn’t you say something? Here.” 

So saying he scooped her up in his arms, settled her in 
place with due regard for the box of caps in his breast-pocket, 
and plowed on through the night. Her arms went round 
his neck and her head went down on his shoulder. She 
sighed a gentle little sigh. For a sigh like that Racey 
would cheerfully have shot a sheriff’s posse to pieces. 

“I left my shoes in my saddle pocket,” she said, apologeti- 
cally. “I — I thought it would be safer.” 

There was a sudden yell somewhere on Main Street. It 
sounded as if it came from uncomfortably close to the Tweezy 
house. Then a sixshooter cracked once, twice, and again. 
At the third shot Racey was running as tight as he could set 
foot to the ground. 

Encumbered as he was with a double armful of girl and a 
fairly heavy sackful of papers he yet made good time to the 
corner of the nearest corral. The increasing riot in Main 
Street undoubtedly was a most potent spur. 

“Which way’s the hoss?” he gasped when the dark rail of 
the corral fretted the sky before them. 

“You’re heading straight,” she replied, calmly. “Thirty 
feet more and you’ll run into him. Better set me down.” 

He did — literally. He turned his foot on a tin can and 
went down ker-flop. Forced to guard his box of caps with 
one hand he could not save Molly Dale a smashing fall. 

“Ah-ugh!” guggled Molly, squirming on the ground, for 
she had struck the pit of her stomach on a round rock the size 
of a football and the wind was knocked out of her. 

Racey scrambled to his feet, and knowing that if Molly 
was able to wriggle and groan she could not be badly hurt, 
picked up the sack and scouted up Molly’s horse. He found 
it without diflSculty, and tied the sack with the saddle strings 
in front of the horn. He loosed the horse and led it to where 
Molly still lay on the ground. The poor girl was sitting up. 


BURGLAKY 275 

clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth and fight- 
ing for her breath with gasps and crows. 

But there was not time to wait till she should regain the 
full use of her lungs — not in the face of the shouts and yells 
in Main Street. Lord, the whole town was up. Lights were 
flashing in every house. Racey stooped, seized Molly under 
the armpits, and heaved her bodily into the saddle. 

“Hang onto the horn,’" he ordered, “and for Gosh sake 
don’t make so much noise!” 

Molly obeyed as best she could. He mounted behind 
her, and of course had to fight the horse, which harboured no 
intention of carrying double if it could help itself. Racey, 
however, was a rider, and he jerked Molly’s quirt from where 
it hung on the horn. Not more than sixty seconds were 
wasted before they were travelling toward the lone pine as 
tight as the horse could jump. 

At the pine Racey slipped to the ground and ran to untie 
his horse. 

“Can you hang on all right at a trot if I lead yore hoss?” 
he queried, sharply, his fingers busy with the knot of the 
rope. 

“I cuc-can and gug-guide him, too,” she stuttered, picking 
up her reins and making a successful effort to sit up straight. 
“ Lul-look ! At Tut-Tweezy ’s huh-house ! ” 

He looked. There were certainly three lanterns bobbing 
about in the open behind the house of Luke Tweezy. He 
knew too well what those lights meant. The Marysville citi- 
zens were hunting for a hot trail. 

He swung up with a rush. 

“Stick right alongside me,” he told her. “We’ll trot at 
first till we get behind the li’l hill out yonder. After that we 
can hit the landscape lively.” 

She spoke no word till they had rounded the little hill and 
were galloping south. Then she said in her normal voice, 
“This isn’t the way home.” 


276 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


‘T know it ain’t. We’ve got to lose whoever follows us 
before we skip for home.” 

“Of course,” she told him, humbly. ‘T might have known. 
You always think of the right thing, Racey.” 

All of which was balm to a hitherto tortured soul. 

“That’s all right,” he said, modestly. 

“And how strong you are — carrying me and that heavy 
sack all that distance.” Both admiration and appreciation 
were in her tone. Any man would have been made happy 
thereby. Racey was overjoyed. And the daughter of Eve 
at his side knew that he was overjoyed and was made glad 
herself. She did not realize that Eve invariably employed 
the same method with our grandfather Adam. 

He reached across and patted her arm. 

“Yo’re all right,” he told her. “When we get out of this 
yo’re going to marry me.” 

Her free hand turned under his and clasped his fingers. So 
they rode for a space hand-in-hand. And Racey ’s heart was 
full. And so was hers. If they forgot for the moment what 
dread possibilities the future held who can blame them? 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE LETTERS 


B ut what was yore idea in coming to Marysville 
a-tall?” 

“To get that release Father signed — I thought it 
might be in his safe.” 

“Anybody give you the idea it might be ? ” 

She shook her head. “ Nobody.” 

“You’ve got more brains than I have, for a fact. But how 
vrere you figuring on getting into the safe?” 

“Oh, I brought a bunch of keys along. What are you 
laughing at? I thought one might fit.” 

“Keys for a safe! Say, don’t you know you don’t open 
safes with keys? They’ve got combinations, safes have.” 

“I didn’t know it. How could I? I never saw a safe in 
my life till I saw this one to-night. I thought they had 

locks like any other ordinary Oh, I think you’re horrid 

to laugh!” 

“I’m not laughing. Lean over, and I’ll show you. . . . 

There, I ain’t laughing, am I?” 

“Not now, but you were. . . . Not another one, 

Racey. Sit back where you belong, will you? You can 
hold my hand if you like. But I wasn’t such a fool as you 
seem to think, Racey. I brought an extra key along in case 
the others didn’t fit.” 

“Extra key?” 

“Surely — seven sticks of dynamite, caps, and fuse. Chuck 
had a lot he was using for blowing stumps, so I borrowed 
some from his barn. He didn’t know I took it.” 


277 


278 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


‘T should hope not/’ Racey declared, fervently. “You 
leave dynamite alone, do you hear? Where is it now? ” 

“Oh, I left it on the floor in Tweezy’s house when I found 
I didn’t need it any longer.” 

“Thank God!” breathed Racey, whose hair had begun to 
rise at the bare idea of the explosives still being somewhere 
on her person. “What was yore motive in holdin’ up Jack 
Harpe and Jakey Pooley?” 

“Was that who they were? I couldn’t see their faces. 
Well, when I had broken the lock and opened the back 
window and crawled through, I went into the front room 
where I thought likely the safe would be, and I was just going 
to strike a match when I heard a snap at the front window as 
the lock broke. Maybe I wasn’t good and scared. I 
paddled into the other front room by mistake. Got turned 
around in the. dark, I suppose. And before I could open a 
window and get out I heard two men in the front room I’d 
just left. I didn’t dare open a window then. They’d have 
heard me surely, so I just knelt down behind a bed. And 
after a while, when one man was busy at the safe, the fat 
man came into my room and sat down on a chair inside the 
door. Lordy, I hardly dared breathe. It’s a wonder my 
hair didn’t turn white. Once I thought they must have 
heard me — the time the fat man said ‘rats’. Honestly, I 
was so scared I was almost sick.” 

“But you have nerve enough to try and hold them up.” 

“I had to. When I found out they were going to rob the 
safe, I had to do something. Why, they might have taken 
the very paper I wanted, and somehow later Tweezy might 
have gotten it back. I couldn’t allow that. I knew that I 
must get at what was inside the safe before they did. I just 
had to, so when the fat man got up from his chair and stood 
in the doorway with his back to me, I just gritted my teeth 
and stood up and said ‘Hands up.’ 

“My Gawd, girl, you might ’a’ been shot!” 


THE LETTERS 


279 


“ I had a sixshooter,” she said, tranquilly. “But I wouldn’t 
have shot first,” she added, reflectively. 

Willy-nilly then he took her in his arms and held her 
tightly. 

“But I don’t see why,” he said after an interval, “you had 
to go off on a wild-goose chase thisaway. Didn’t I tell you 
I was going to fix it up for you? Couldn’t you ’a’ trusted me 
enough to lemme do it my own way ? ” 

“We had that — that quarrel in the kitchen, and I thought 
you didn’t like me any more, and — and wouldn’t have any 
more to do with me and that it was my job to do something to 
help out the family. . . . Please! Racey! I can’t 

breathe!” 

Another interval, and she resolutely pushed his arms down 
and held him away from her with both hands on his shoulders. 

“Tell me,” said she, her blue eyes plumbing the very 
depths of his soul, “tell me you don’t love anybody else.” 

He told her. 

Later. “There was a time once when I thought you liked 
Luke Tweezy,” he observed, lazily. 

“How horrible,” she murmured with a slight shudder as 
she snuggled closer. 

And that was that. 

“I think, dearest,” said Molly, raising her head from his 
shoulder some twenty minutes later, “that it’s light enough 
now to see what’s in the sack.” 

So, in the brightness of a splendid dawn, snugly hidden on 
the tree-covered flank of one of the Frying Pan Mountains, 
they opened the bran sack and went through every paper it 
contained. 

There were deeds, mortgages, legal documents of every 
description. They found the Dale mortgage, but they did 
not find the release alleged to have been signed by Dale im- 
mediately prior to his death. 

“Of course that mortgage is recorded,” said Racey, dole- 


280 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


fully, staring at the pile of papers, “so destroyin’ that won’t 
help us any. The release he’s carrying with him, and I 
don’t see anything ” 

“Here’s one we missed,” said Molly Dale in a hopeless tone, 
picking up a slip of paj>er from where it had fallen behind a 
saddle. The slip of paper was folded several times. She 
opened it and spread it out against her knee. “Why, how 
queer,” she muttered. 

“Huh?” In an instant Racey was looking over her 
shoulder. 

When both had thoroughly digested the meaning of the 
writing on that piece of paper they sat back and regarded 
each other with wide eyes. 

“This ought to fix things,” breathed Molly. 

“Fix things!” cried Racey. “Cinch! We’ve got him 
like that.” 

He snapped his fingers joyfully. 

Molly reached for the bran sack. “You only shook it 
out,” she said. “I’m going to turn it inside out. Maybe 
we’ll find something else.” 

They did find something else. They found a document 
caught in the end seam. They read it with care and great 
interest. 

“Well,” said Racey, when he came to the signatures, “no 
wonder Jack Harpe and Jakey Pooley wanted to get into the 
safe. No wonder. If we don’t get the whole gang now we’re 
no good.” 

“And to think we never thought of such a thing.” 

“I was took in. I never thought anything else. And it 
does lie just right for a cow ranch.” 

“Of course it does. You couldn’t help being fooled. 
None of us had any idea ” 

“I’d oughta worked it out,” he grumbled. “There ain’t 
any excuse for my swallowing what Jack Harpe told me. 
Lordy, I was easy.” 


THE LETTERS 


“What do you care now? Everything’s all right, and 
you’ve got me, haven’t you?” And here she leaned across 
the bran sack to kiss him. 

She could not understand why his return kiss lacked 
warmth. 

******* 

“Sun’s been up two hours,” he announced. “And the 
bosses have had a good rest. We’d better be goin’.” 

“What are you climbing the tree for, then?” she demanded. 

“I want to look over our back trail,” he told her, 
clambering into the branches of a tail cedar. “I know we 
covered a whole heap of ground last night, but you never 
can tell.” 

Apparently you never could tell. For, when he arrived 
near the top of the cedar and looked out across a sea of tree- 
tops to the flat at the base of the mountain, he saw that 
which made him catch his breath and slide earthward in a 
hurry. 

“What is it?” asked Molly in alarm at his expression. 

“They picked up our trail somehow,” he answered, whip- 
ping up a blanket and saddle and throwing both on her horse. 
“They’re about three miles back on the flat just a-burnin’ the 
ground.” 

“Saddle your own horse,” she cried, running to his side. 
“I’ll attend to mine.” 

“You stuff all the papers back in the sack. That’s 
yore job. Hustle, now. I’ll get you out of this. Don’t 
worry.” 

“I’m not worrying — not a worry,” she said, cheerfully, 
both hands busy with Luke Tweezy’s papers. “I’d like to 
! laiow how they picked up the trail after our riding up that 
creek for six miles.” 

“I dunno,” said he, his head under an upflung saddle- 
fender. “I shore thought we’d lost ’em.” 

She stopped tying the sack and looked at him. “ How silly 


282 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


we are!” she cried. ‘‘All we have to do is show these two 
letters to the posse an’ ” 

“S’pose now the posse is led by Jack Harpe and Jakey 
Pooley,” said he, not ceasing to pass the cinch strap. 

Her face fell. “I never thought of that,” she admitted. 
“But there must be some honest men in the bunch.” 

“It takes a whole lot to convince an honest man when he’s 
part of a posse,” Racey declared, reaching for the bran sack. 
“They don’t stop to reason, a posse don’t, and this lot of 
Marysville gents wouldn’t give us time to explain these 
two letters, and before they got us back to town, the two 
letters would disappear, and then where would we be? We’d 
be in jail, and like to stay awhile.” 

“Let’s get out of here,” exclaimed Molly, crawling her 
horse even quicker than Racey did his. 

Racey led the way along the mountain side for three or 
four miles. Most of the time they rode at a gallop and all 
the time they took care to keep under cover of the trees. 
This necessitated frequent zigzags, for the trees grew sparsely 
in spots. 

“There’s a slide ahead a ways,” Racey shouted to the girl. 
“She’s nearly a quarter-mile wide, and over two miles long, 
so we’ll have to take a chance and cross it.” 

Molly nodded her wind-whipped head and Racey snatched 
a wistful glance at the face he loved. Renunciation was in 
his eyes, for that second letter found caught in the bran 
sack’s seam had changed things. He could not marry her. 
No, not now. And yet he loved her more than ever. She 
looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back — crookedly. 

“What’s the matter?” she cried above the drum of the 
flying hoofs. 

“Nothing,” he shouted back. 

He hoped she believed him. And bitter almonds were not 
as bitter as that hope. 

Then the wide expanse of the slide was before them. Now 


THE LETTERS 


^3 


some slides have trails across their unstable backs, and some 
have not. Some are utterly unsafe to cross and others can 
be crossed with small risk. There was no trail across this 
particular sHde, and it did not present a dangerous appear- 
ance. Neither does quicksand — ^till you step on it. 

Racey dismounted at the edge and started across, leading 
his horse. Twenty yards in the rear Molly Dale followed in 
like manner. At every step the footing gave a little. Once a 
rounded rock dislodged by the forefoot of Racey’s horse 
bounded away down the long slope. 

The slither of a started rock behind him made him turn 
his head with a jerk. Molly’s horse was down on its knees. 

“Easy, boy, easy,” soothed Molly, coaxingly, keeping the 
bridle reins taut. 

The horse scrambled up and plunged forward, and almost 
overran Molly. She seized it short by the rein-chains. The 
horse pawed nervously and tried to rear. More rocks 
skidded downward under the shove of the hind hoofs. To 
Racey ’s imagination the whole slide seemed to tremble. 

Molly’s face when the horse finally quieted and she turned 
around was pale and drawn. Which was not surprising. 

“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Racey found 
himself repeating with stiff lips. 

“Of course it is,” nodded Molly, bravely. “There’s no 
danger ! ” 

“No,” said Racey. “Better not hold him so short. 
Don’t wind that rein round yore wrist ! S’pose he goes down 
you’d go, too. Here, you lemme take him. I’ll nianage him 
all right.” 

“I’ll manage him all right myself!” snapped Molly, up in 
arms immediately at this slur upon her horsemanship. “You 
go on.” 

Racey turned and went on. It was not more than a him- 
dred yards to where the grass grew on firm ground. Racey 
and his horse reached solid earth without incident. Then — 


284 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


a scramble, a scraping, and a clattering followed in a breath 
by the indescribable sound of a mass of rocks in motion. 

Racey had wasted no time in looking to see what had 
happened. He knew. At the first sound of disaster he had 
snapped his rope strap, freed his rope and taken two half 
hitches round the horn. Then he leaped toward the slide, 
shaking out his rope as he went. 

Twenty feet out and below him Molly Dale and her 
struggling horse were sliding downward. If the horse had 
remained quiet — ^but the horse was not remaining quiet and 
Molly’s wrist was tangled in the bridle reins. 

In the beginning the movement was slow, but as Racey 
reached the edge of the slide an extra strong plunge of the 
horse drove both girl and animal downward two yards in a 
breath. Molly turned a white face upward. 

“So long, Racey,” she called, bravely, and waved her free 
hand. 

But Racey was going down to her with his rope in one 
hand. With the other hand and his teeth he was opening his 
pocket-knife. The loose stones skittered round his ankles 
and turned under his boot soles. He took tremendous steps 
and, with that white face below him, lived an age between 
eachs tep. 

“Grab the rope above my hand!” he yelled, although by 
now she was not a yard from him. 

Racey was closer to the end of his rope than he realized. 
At the instant that her free hand clutched at the rope it 
tightened with a jerk as the cow pony at the other end, feeling 
the strain and knowing his business, braced his legs and 
swayed backward. Molly’s fingers brushed the back of 
Racey’s hand and swept down his arm. Well it was for 
him that he had taken two turns round his wrist, for her fore- 
arm went round his neck and almost the whole downward 
pull of girl and horse exerted itself against the strength of 
Racey Dawson’s arm and shoulder muscles. 


THE LETTERS 


285 


’s face and chin were pressed tightly against Racey’s 
neck. Siinall blame to her if her eyes were closed. The arm 
held fast by the bridle was cruelly stretched and twisted. 
And where the rein was tight across the back of her wrist, 
for he could reach no lower, Racey set the blade of his 
pocket-knife and sawed desperately. It was not a sharp 
knife and the leather was tough. The steel did not bite well. 
Racey sawed all the harder. His left arm felt as if it were 
being wrenched out of its socket. The sweat was pouring 
down his face. His hat jumped from his head. He did not 
even wonder why. He must cut that bridle rein in two. He 
must — ^he must. 

Snap! Three parts cut, the leather parted, Molly’s left 
arm and Racey’s right fell limply. Molly’s horse went down 
the slide alone. Neither of them saw it go. Molly had 
fainted, and Racey was too spent to do more than catch her 
round the waist and hold her to him in time to prevent her 
following the horse. 

Smack ! something small and hot sprinkled Racey’s cheek. 
He looked to the left. On a rock face close by was a splash 
of lead. Smack! Zung-g-g diminuendo, as a bullet struck 
the side of a rock and buzzed off at an angle. 

Racey turned his head abruptly. At a place where trees 
grew thinly on the opposite side of the slide and at a consider- 
ably lower altitude than the spot where he and Molly hung 
at the end of their rope shreds of gray smoke were dissolving 
into the atmosphere. The range was possibly seven hun- 
dred yards. The hidden marksman was a good shot to drive 
his bullets as close as he had at that distance. 

Straight out from the place of gray smoke four men and 
four horses were making their way across the slide. They 
were halfway across. But they had stopped. The down 
rush of Molly’s horse had apparently given them pause. 
Now two men started ahead, one stood irresolute and one 
started to retrace his steps. It is a true saying that he who 


286 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


hesitates is lost. Straight over the irresolute mar and his 
horse rolled the dust cloud whose centre was Moll/'S horse. 
When the dust cloud passed on it was much larger, and both 
the man and his horse had disappeared. 

The man who had started to retreat continued to retreat, 
and more rapidly. The two who had held on did not cease to 
advance, but they proceeded very slowly. 

“If that feller with the Winchester don’t get us we’re all 
right for a spell,” Racey muttered. 

He knew that on their side of the slide for a distance of 
several hundred yards up and down the side of the mountain 
and for several miles athwart it the underbrush was impene- 
trable for horses and wicked travelling for men. There had 
been a forest fire four years before, and everyone knows 
what happens after that. 

In but one place, where a ridge of rock reared through the 
soil, was it possible to cross the stretch of burned-over ground. 
Naturally Racey had picked this one spot. Whether 
the posse had not known of this rock ridge, or whether they 
had simply miscalculated its position it is impossible to 
say. 

“Those two will shore be out of luck when they get in 
among the stubs,” he thought to himself, as he waited for his 
strength to come back. 

But youth recovers quickly and Racey was young. It 
may be that the lead that was being sent at him and Molly i 
Dale was a potent revivifier. ' 

Certainly within three or four minutes after he had cut the 
bridle Racey began to work his way up the rope to where his \ 
patient and well- trained horse stood braced and steady as the j 
proverbial boulder. 

Monotonously the man behind the Winchester whipped | 
bullet after bullet into the rocky face of the slide in the • 
immediate vicinity of Racey Dawson and the senseless bur- 
den in the crook of his left arm. Nevertheless, Racey took 


THE LETTERS 287 

the time to work to the right and recover the hat that a bullet 
had flicked from his head. 

Then he resumed his slow journey upward. 

Ages passed before he felt the good firm ground under his 
feet and laid the still unconscious Molly on the grass behind 
a gray and barkless windfall that had once been a hundred- 
foot fir. 

Then he removed his horse farther back among the stubs 
where it could not be seen, took his Winchester from the 
scabbard imder the left fender and went back to the edge of 
the slide to start a return argument with the individual who 
had for the last ten minutes been endeavouring to kill him. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


HUE AND CRY 

D id you hit him? ” 

“I don’t think so,” replied Racey without turning 
his head. “Keep down.” 

“I am down.” 

“How you feel?” 

“Pretty good — considering.” 

“Close squeak — considerin’.” 

“Yes,” said she in a small voice, “it was a close squeak. 
You — ^you saved my life, Racey.” 

“Shucks,” he said, much embarrassed, “that wasn’t 
anythin’ — I mean — ^you — ^you know what I mean.” 

“Surely. I know what you mean. All the same, you 
saved my life. Tell me, was that man shooting at us all the 
time after I fainted until you got me under cover? ” 

“Not all the time, no.” 

“But most of the time. Oh, you can make small of it, but 
you were very brave. It isn’t everybody would have stuck 
the way you did.” 

Smack! Tchuck! A bullet struck a rock two feet belew 
where Racey lay on his stomach, his rifle-barrel poked out 
between two shrubs of smooth sumac — another bored the 
hole of a gray stub at his back. 

He fired quickly at the first puff of smoke, then sent two 
bullets a little to the left of the centre of the second puff. 

“Not much chance of hittin’ the first feller,” he said to 
Molly. “He’s behind a log, but that second sport is behind a 
bush same as me. . . . Huh? Oh, I’m all right. I got 

288 


HUE AND CRY 


289 


the ground in front of me. He hasn’t. Alla same, we ain’t 
stayin’ here any longer. I think I saw half-a-dozen gents 
cuttin’ across the end of the slide. Give ’em time and they’ll 
cut in behind us, which ain’t part of my plans a-tall. Let’s 

He crawfished backward on his hands and knees. Molly 
followed his example. When they were sufficiently far back 
to be able to stand upright with safety they scrambled to their 
feet and hurried to the horse. 

“I’ll lead him for a while,” said Racey, giving Molly a leg 
up, for the horse was a tall one. “He won’t have to carry 
double just yet.” 

So, with Racey walking ahead, they resumed their retreat. 

The ridge of rock cutting across the burned-over area could 
not properly be called rimrock. It was a different formation. 
Set at an angle it climbed steadily upward to the very top of 
the mountain. In places weatherworn to a slippery smooth- 
ness; in others jagged, fragment-strewn; where the rain had 
washed an earth-covering upon the rock the cheerful kinnikin- 
ick spread its mantle of shining green. 

The man and the girl and the horse made good time. 
Racey ’s feet began to hurt before he had gone a mile, but he 
knew that something besides a pair of feet would be irrepar- 
ably damaged if he did not keep going. If they caught him 
he would be lynched, that’s what he would be. If he weren’t 
shot first. And the girl — well, she would get at the least ten 
years at Piegan City, if they were caught. But “if” is the 
longest and tallest word in the dictionary. It is indeed a 
mighty barrier before the Lord. 

“Did you ever stop to think they may come up through 
this brush?” said Molly, on whom the silence and the sad 
gray stubs on either hand were beginning to tell. 

“No,” he answered, “I didn’t, because they can’t. The 
farther down you go the worse it gets. They’d never get 
through. Not with bosses. We’re all right.” 


290 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“Are we? ” She stood up in her stirrups, and looked down 
through a vista between the stubs. 

They had reached the top of the mountain. It was a 
saddle-backed mountain, and they were at the outer edge of 
the eastern hump. Far below was a narrow valley running 
north and south. It was a valley without trees or stream and 
through it a string of dots were slipping to the north. 

“Are we all right?” she persisted. “Look down there.” 

At this he turned his head and craned his neck. 

“I guess,” he said, stepping out, “we’d better boil this 
kettle a li’l faster.” 

She made no comment, but always she looked down the 
mountain side and watched, when the stubs gave her the 
opportunity, that ominous string of dots. She had never 
been hunted before. 

They crossed the top of the mountain, keeping to the ridge 
of rock, and started down the northern slope. Here they 
passed out of the burned-over area of underbrush and stubs 
and scuffed through brushless groves of fir and spruce where 
no grass grew and not a ray of sunshine struck the ground and 
the wind soughed always mournfully. 

But here and there were comparatively open spaces, grassy, 
drenched with sunshine, and sparsely sprinkled with lovely 
mountain maples and solitary yellow pines. In the wider 
open spaces they could see over the tops of the trees below 
them and catch glimpses of the way they must go. 

A deep notch, almost a canon, grown up in spruce divided 
the mountain they were descending from the next one to the 
north. This next one thrust a rocky shoulder easterly. The 
valley where the horsemen rode bent round this shoulder in a 
curve measured in miles. They could not see the riders now. 

“There’s a trail just over the hill,” said Racey, nodding 
toward the mountain across the notch. “It ain’t been 
regularly used since the Daisy petered out in ’73, but I guess 
the bridge is all right.” 


HUE AND CRY 


291 


“And suppose it ain’t all right?” 

“We’ll have to grow wings in a hurry,” he said, soberly, 
thinking of the deep cleft spanned by the bridge. 

“Does this trail lead to Farewell?” 

“Same thing — it’ll take us to the Farewell trail if we 
wanted to go there, but we don’t. We ain’t got time. We’ll 
stick to this trail till we get out of the Frying-Pans and then 
we’ll head northeast for the Cross-in-a-box. That’s the 
nearest place where I got friends. And I don’t mind saying 
we’ll be needing friends bad, me and you both.” 

“Suppose that posse reaches the trail and the bridge before 
we do?” 

“Oh, I guess they won’t. They have to go alia way roimd 
and we go straight mostly. Don’t you worry. We’ll make 
the riffle yet.” 

His voice was more confident than his brain. It was 
I touch and go whether they would reach the trail and the 
bridge first. The posse in the valley — that was what would 
stack the cards against them. And if they should pass the 
bridge first, what then? It was at least thirty miles from the 
bridge to the Cross-in-a-box ranch-house. And there was 
only one horse. Indeed, the close squeak was still squeaking. 

“Racey, you’re limping!” 

“Not me,” he lied. “Stubbed my toe, thassall.” 

“Nothing of the kind. It’s those tight boots. Here, you 
ride, and let me walk.” So saying, she slipped to the ground. 

As was natural the horse stopped with a jerk. So did 
Racey. 

“You get into that saddle,” he directed, sternly. “We 
ain’t got time for any foolishness.” 

Foolishness! And she was only trying to be thoughtful. 
Foolishness! She turned and climbed back into the saddle, 
and sat up straight, her backbone as stiff as a ramrod, and 
looked over his head and far away. For the moment she was 
so hopping mad she forgot the danger they were in. 


292 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


They made their way down into the heavy growth of 
Engelmann spruce that filled the notch, crossed the floor of 
the notch, and began again to climb. 

An hour later they crossed the top of the second mountain 
and saw far below them a long saddle back split in the middle 
by a narrow cleft. At that distance it looked very narrow. 
In reality, it was forty feet wide. Racey stopped and swept 
with squinting eyes the place where he knew the bridge to be. 

“See,” he said, suddenly, pointing for Molly’s benefit. 
“There’s the Daisy trail. I can see her plain — to the left 
of that arrowhead bimch of trees. And the bridge is behind 
the trees.” 

“But I don’t see any trail.” 

“Grown up in grass. That’s why. It’s behind the trees 
mostly, anyhow. But she’s there, the trail is. You can bet 
on it.” 

“I don’t want to bet on it.” Shortly. She was still mad 
at him. He had saved her life, he had succeeded in saving 
the family ranch, he had put her under eternal obligations, 
but he had called her thought for him foolishness. It was too 
much. 

Yet all the time she was ashamed of herself. She knew 
that she was small and mean and narrow and deserved a 
spanking if any girl did. She wanted to cuff Racey, cuff him 
till his ears turned red and his head rang. For that is the 
way a woman feels when she loves a man and he has hurt her 
feelings. But she feels almost precisely the same way when 
she hates one who has. Truth it is that Love and Hate are 
close akin. 

Down, down they dropped two thousand feet, and when 
they came out upon the fairly level top of the saddle back 
Racey mounted behind Molly. 

“He’ll have to carry double now,” he explained. “She’s 
two mile to the bridge, and my wind ain’t good enough to run 
me two mile.” 


HUE AND CRY 


293 


It was not his wind that was weak, it was his feet — his 
tortured, blistered feet that were two flaming aches. Later 
they would become numb. He wished they were numb now, 
and cursed silently the man who first invented cowboy boots. 
' Every jog of the trotting horse whose back he bestrode was a 
twitching torture. 

“We’ll be at the bridge in another mile,” he told her. 

“Thank Heaven!” 

Silent and grass-grown lay the Daisy trail when they came 
out upon it winding through a meagre plantation of cedars. 

“No one’s come along yet,” vouchsafed Racey, turning 
into the trail after a swift glance at its trackless, undisturbed 
surface. 

He tickled the horse with both spurs and stirred him into a 
gallop. There was not much spring in that gallop. Racey 
weighed fully one hundred and seventy pounds without his 
clothes, Molly a hundred and twenty with all of hers, and the 
j saddle, blanket, sack, rifle, and cartridges weighed a good 
i sixty. On top of this weight pile many weary miles the horse 
had travelled since its last meal and you have what it was 
1 carrying. No wonder the gallop lacked spring. 

I “Bridge is just beyond those trees,” said Racey in Molly’s 
I ear. 

j “The horse is nearly run out,” was her comment, 
i “He ain’t dead yet.” 

I They rocked around the arrowhead grove of trees and saw 
the bridge before them — one stringer. There had been two 
stringers and adequate flooring when Racey had seen it last. 
The snows of the previous winter must have been heavy in the 
Frying-Pan Mountains. 

Molly shivered at the sight of that lone stringer. 

“The horse is done, and so are we,” she muttered. 

“Nothing like that,” he told her, cheerfully. “There’s one 
stringer left. Good enough for a squirrel, let alone two white 
folks.” 


294 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“I — I couldn’t,” shuddered Molly. 

They had stopped at the bridge head, Racey had dis- 
mounted, and she was looking down into the dark mouth of 
the cleft with frightened eyes. 

“It must be five hundred feet to the bottom,” she whis- 
pered, her chin wobbling. 

“Not more than four hundred,” he said, reassuringly. 
“And that log is a good strong four-foot log, and she’s been 
shaved off with the broadaxe for layin’ the flooring so we got 
a nice smooth path almost two feet wide.” 

In reality, that smooth path retained not a few of the spikes 
that had once held the flooring and it was no more than 
eighteen inches wide. Racey gabbled on regardless. If 
chatter would do it, he’d get her mind off that four-hundred- 
foot drop. 

“I cuc-can’t!” breathed Molly. “I cuc-can’t walk across 
on that lul-log! I’d fall off! I know I would ! ” 

“You ain’t gonna walk across the log,” he told her with a 
broad grin. “I’ll carry you pickaback. C’mon, Molly, 
slide off. That’s right. Now when I stoop put yore arms 
round my neck. I’ll stick my arms under yore legs. See, 
like this. Now yo’re all right. Don’t worry. I won’t drop 
you. Close yore eyes and sit still, and you’ll never know 
what’s happening. Close ’em now while I walk round with 
you a li’l bit so’s to get the hang of carryin’ you.” 

She closed her eyes, and he began to walk about carrying 
her. At least she thought he was walking about. But when 
he stopped and she opened her eyes, she discovered that the 
horse was standing on the other side of the cleft. At first she 
did not understand. 

“How on earth did the horse get over?” she asked in 
wonder. 

“He didn’t,” Racey said, quietly, setting her down, “but 
we did. I carried you across while you had yore eyes shut. 
I told you you’d never know what was happenin’.” 


HUE AND CRY 


295 


She sat down limply on the ground. Racey started back 
across the stringer to get the horse. He hurried, too. That 
posse they had seen in the valley! There was no telling 
where it was. It might be four miles away, or four hundred 
yards. 

“C’mon, feller,’’ said Racey, picking up the reins of the 
tired horse. “And for Gawd’s sake pick up yore feet! If 
you don’t that dynamite is gonna make one awful mess at 
the bottom of the canon.” 

Dynamite! Mess! There was an idea. Although in 
order to spare Molly an extra worry for the time being, he 
had told her they would push on together, it had been his 
intention to hold the bridge with his rifle while Molly rode 
alone to the Cross-in-a-box for help. But those six sticks of 
dynamite would simplify the complex situation without 
diflSculty. 

He did not hurry the horse. He merely walked in front 
holding the bridle slackly. The horse followed him as good 
as gold — ^and picked up his feet at nearly every spike. Once 
or twice a hind hoof grazed a spike-head with a rasping sound 
that sent Racey’s heart bouncing up into his throat. Lord, 
so much depended on a safe passage ! 

For the first time in his eventful life Racey Dawson realized 
that he possessed a full and working set of nerves. 

When they reached firm ground Racey flung the reins to 
Molly. ... * 

“ Unpack the dynamite,” he cried. “ It’s in the slicker.” 

With his bowie he began furiously to dig under the end of 
the stringer where it lay embedded in the earth. Within ten 
minutes he had a hole large enough and long enough to thrust 
in the whole of his arm. He made it a little longer and a 
little wider, and at the end he drove an offset. This last that 
there might be no risk of the charge blowing out through the 
hole. 

When the hole was to his liking, he sat back on his haunches 


296 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


and grabbed the dynamite sticks Molly held out to him. 
With strings cut from his saddle he tied the sticks into a 
bundle. Then he prepared his fuse and cap. In one of the 
sticks he made a hole. In this hole he firmly inserted the 
copper cap. Above the cap he tied the fuse to the bundle 
with several lappings of a saddle-string. 

“There!” he exclaimed. “I guess that cap will stay put. 
You and the hoss get out of here, Molly. Go along the trail 
a couple of hundred yards or so. G’on. Get a move on. 
I’ll be with you in a minute. Better leave my rifie.” 

Molly laid the Winchester on the grass beside him, mounted 
the horse, and departed reluctantly. She did not like 
to leave Racey now. She had burned out her “mad”. 
She rode away chin on shoulder. The cedars swallowed 
her up. 

Racey with careful caution stuffed the dynamite down 
the hole and into the offset. Then he shovelled in the earth 
with his hands and tamped it down with a rock. 

Was that the clack of a hoof on stone Faint and far away 
another hoof clacked. He reached up to his hatband for a 
match. There were no matches in his hatband. Feverishly 
he searched his pockets. Not a match — not a match any- 
where! 

He whipped out his sixshooter, held the muzzle close to the 
end of the fuse and fired. He had to fire three times before 
the fuse began to sparkle and spit. 

Clearly it came to his ears, the unmistakable thudding of 
galloping hoofs on turf. The posse was riding for the bridge 
full tilt. He picked up his rifle and dodged in among the 
trees along the trail. Forty yards from the mined stringer 
he met Molly riding back with a scared face. 

“What is it.f^” she cried to him. “I heard shots! Oh, 
what is it?” 

“Go back! Go back!” he bawled. “I only cut that fuse 
for three minutes.” 


HUE AND CRY 


m 


Molly wheeled the horse and fled. Racey ran to where a 
windfall lay near the edge of the cleft and some forty yards 
from the stringer. Behind the windfall he lay down, levered 
a cartridge into the chamber, and trained his rifle on the 
bridge head. 

The galloping horsemen were not a hundred paces from 
the stringer when the dynamite let go with a soul-satisfying 
roar. Rocks, earth, chunks and splinters of wood flew up in 
advance of a rolling cloud of smoke that obscured the cleft 
from rim to rim. 

A crash at the bottom of the narrow canon told Racey 
what had happened to that part of the stringer the dynamite 
had not destroyed. 

Racey lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch 
just as the posse began to approach the spot where the 
bridge had been. It approached on foot by ones and twos 
and from tree to tree. Racey could not see any one, but he 
could see the tree branches move here and there. 

“I guess,” muttered Racey, as he crawfished away from 
the windfall, ‘T guess that settles the cat-hop.” 

^ 4: 4: 4: ^ 4s 

The sun was near its rising the following day when Racey 
and Molly, their one horse staggering with fatigue, reached 
the Cross-in-a-box. Racey had walked all the distance he 
was humanly able to walk, but even so the horse had carried 
double the better part of twenty miles. It had earned a rest. 

So had Racey’s feet. 

He 4c 4: * Hs 4( 

“My Gawd, what a relief!” Racey muttered, and sat back 
and gingerly wiggled his toes. 

“Damn shame you had to cut ’em up thataway,” said 
Jack Richie, glancing at Racey ’s slit boots. “They look like 
new boots.” 

“It is and they are, but I couldn’t get ’em off any other 
way, and I’ll bet I won’t be able to get another pair on inside a 


298 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


month. Lordy, man, did you ever think natural-bom feet ^ 
would swell like that.'^” | 

“You better soak them awhile,” said Jack Richie. “ C’mon \ 
out to the kitchen.” ■ 

“ Shore feels good,” said Racey, when his swelled feet were 
immersed in a dishpan half full of tepid water. “Lookit, 
Jack, let Miss Dale have her sleep out, and to-morrow some- 
time send a couple of boys with her over to Moccasin Spring.” j 
“ Whatsa matter with you and one of the boys doing it? ” \ 

“Because I have to go to Piegan City. ” 

“Huh?” j 

“Yep — ^Piegan City. I’m coming back, though, so you j 
needn’t worry about losing the hoss yo’re gonna lend me.” i 
“That’s good. But ” 

“And if any gents on hossback should drop in on you and 
ask questions just remember that what they dunno won’t 
hurt ’em,” 

Jack Richie nodded understandingly, “Trust me,” he 
said. “As I see it. Miss Dale and you come in from the 
north, and ” 

“Only me — ^you ain’t seen any Miss Dale — and I only 
stopped long enough to borrow a fresh hoss and then rode 
away south.” 

“I know it all by heart,” nodded Jack Richie. 

“In about a week or ten days, maybe less,” said Racey 
Dawson, “you’ll know more than that. And so will a good 
many other folks.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE REGISTER 

M r. POOLEY,” said Racey Dawson, easing himself 
into the chair beside the register’s desk, “where is 
McFluke.?^” 

Mr. Pooley’s features remained as wooden as they were fat. 
His small, wide-set eyes did not flicker. He placed the tips 
of his fingers together, leaned back in his chair, and stared at 
Racey between the eyebrows. 

“McFluke?” he repeated. “I don’t know the name.” 

“ I mean the murderer Jack Harpe sent to you to be taken 
I care of ,” explained Racey. 

Mr. Pooley continued to stare. For a long moment he 
made no comment. Then he said, “ Still, I don’t know the 
I name.” 

I “If you will lean back a li’l more,” Racey told him, “you 
j can look out of the window and see two chairs in front of the 
Kearney House. On the right we have Bill Riley, a Wells 
Fargo detective from Omaha, on the left Tom Seemly from 
the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco. They know some- 
thing but not everything. Suppose I should spin ’em all my 
Zi’/ tale of grief — what then, Mr. Pooley?” 

“Still — I wouldn’t know the name McFluke,” maintained 
Mr. Pooley. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pooley,” said Racey, rising to his feet. “I 
shore am.” 

“Don’t strain yoreself,” advised Mr. Pooley, making a 
brave rustle among the papers on his desk. 

299 


300 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“ I won’t,” Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last 
grin upon Mr. Pooley. “So long. Glad I called.” 

Mr. Pooley laughed outright. “G’by,” he called after 
Racey as the door closed. 

Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey 
Dawson stop on the sidewalk in front of the two detectives. 
The three conversed a moment, then Racey entered the 
Kearney House. The two detectives remained where they 
were. 

Mr. Pooley arose and left the room. 

* * H: H: 4: * 

“You gotta get out of here!” It was Mr. Pooley speaking 
with great asperity. 

“ Why for .f^” countered our old friend McFluke, one-time 
proprietor of a saloon on the bank of the Lazy. 

“Because they’re after you, that’s why.” 

“Who’s they?” 

“Racey Dawson for one.” 

McFluke sat upright in the bunk. “Him! that !” 

“Yes, him,” sneered Pooley. “Scares you, don’t it? And 
he’s got two detectives with him, so get a move on. I don’t 
want you anywhere on my property if they do come snijBBn’ 
round.” 

“I’m right comfortable here,” declared McFluke, and lay 
down upon the bunk. 

“You’d better go,” said Mr. Pooley, softly. 

“Not unless I get some money first.” 

“So that’s the game, is it? Think I’ll pay you to drift, 
huh ? How much ? ” 

“Oh, about ten thousand.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Well, say fifteen — and not a check, neither.” 

“No,” said Mr. Pooley, “it won’t be a check. It won’t be 
anything, you — worm.” 

So saying Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, 


THE REGISTER 301 

yanked him out of the bunk, and flung him sprawling on the 
floor. 

“Not one cent do you get from me,” declared Mr. Pooley. 
“I never paid blackmail yet and I ain’t beginning now. I 
always told Harpe you’d upset the applecart with yo’re bull- 
headed ways. You stinking murderer, it wasn’t necessary to 
kill Old Man Dale! Suppose he did hit you, what of it? 
You could have knocked him out with a bungstarter. But 
no, you had to kill him, and get everybody suspicious, didn’t 
you? Why — you, you make me feel like cutting your 
throat, to have you upset my plans this way!” 

McFluke raised himself on an arm. “I didn’t upset yore 
plans none,” he denied, sulkily. “ Everythin’s cornin’ out all 
right. Hell, he wouldn’t play that day, anyway! Said he’d 
never touch a card or look at a wheel again as long as he 
lived, and when I laughed at him he hit me. Whatell else 
could I do? I hadda shoot him. I ” 

“Shut up, you and your T’s’ and ‘He wouldn’t’ and T 
hadda!’ If you’ve told me that tale once since you came 
here you’ve told me forty times. Get up and get out! 
Yore horse is tied at the corral gate. .1 roped him on my 
way in. C’mon ! Get up ! or will I have to crawl yore hump 
again?” 

But McFluke did not get up. Instead he scrabbled side- 
wise to the wall and shrank against it. His eyes were wide, 
staring. They were fixed on the doorway behind Mr. 
Pooley. 

“I didn’t do it, gents!” cried McFluke, thrusting out his 
hands before his face as though to ward off a blow. “I 
didn’t kill him ! I didn’t ! It’s all a lie ! I didn’t kill him ! ” 

Fat Jacob Pooley whirled to face three guns. His right 
hand fell away reluctantly from the butt of his sixshooter. 
Slowly his arms went above his head. Racey Dawson and 
his two companions entered the room. The eldest of these 
companions was one of the Piegan City town marshals. He 


302 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


was a friend of Jacob Pooley’s. But there was no friendliness 
in his face as he approached the register, removed his gun, 
and searched his person for other weapons. Jacob Pooley 
said nothing. His face was a dark red. The marshal pro- 
duced a pair of handcuffs. The register recoiled. 

“Not those!” he protested. “Don’t put handcuffs on 
me!” 

“Put yore hands down,” ordered the marshal. 

“Look here. I’ll go quietly. I’ll ” 

“Put yore hands dmon! ” repeated the inexorable marshal. 

Jacob Pooley put his hands down. 

Racey and the other man were handcuflSng McFluke, who 
was keeping up an incessant wail of, “ I didn’t do it ! I didn’t, 
gents, I didn’t!” 

“Oh, shut up!” ordered Racey, jerking the prisoner to his 
feet. “You talk too much.” 

“Where’s yore Wells Fargo and Pinkerton detectives?” 
demanded Mr. Pooley. 

“This gent is the Wells Fargo detective,” replied Racey, 
indicating the man who had helped him handcuff McFluke. 
“There ain’t any Pinkerton within five hundred miles so far 
as I know. . . . Huh? Them? Oh, they were just 

drummers from Chicago I happened to speak to because I 
figured you’d be expectin’ me to after I’d told you who they 
were. The real Wells Fargo, Mr. Johnson here, was a- 
watchin’ yore corral alia time, so when you got a friend of 
yores to pull them two drummers into a poker game and then 
saddled yore hoss and went bustin’ off in the direction of 
yore claim we got the marshal and trailed you.” 

“You can’t prove anything!” bluffed Mr. Pooley. 

“We were here beside the door listenin’ from the time 
McFluke said he was too comfortable to move out of here.” 
Thus the marshal wearily. 

Mr. Pooley considered a moment. “Who snitched where 
Mac was?” he asked, finally. 


THE REGISTER 


303 


“Nobody,” replied Racey, promptly. 

“Somebody must have. Who was it?” 

“Nobody, I tell you. McFluke had to go somewhere, 
didn’t he? He couldn’t hang around Farewell. Too dan- 
gerous. But the chances were he wouldn’t leave the country 
complete till he got his share. And as nothing had come off 
it wasn’t any likely he’d got his share. So he’d want to keep 
in touch with his friends till the deal was put through. It 
was only natural he’d drift to you. And when I come here 
to Piegan City and heard you had hired a man to live on 
yore claim and then got a look at him without him knowing 
it the rest was easy.” 

“But what,” inquired Mr. Pooley, perplexedly, “has Wells 
Fargo to do with this business?” 

“Anybody that knows Bill Smith alias Jack Harpe as well 
as you do,” spoke up Mr. Johnson, grimly, “is bound to be of 
interest to Wells Fargo.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE LAST TRICK 


I ’D TAKE it kindly if you gents would stick yore guns on 
the mantel-piece,” said Judge Dolan. 

Jack Harpe and Luke Tweezy looked at each other. 

“I ain’t wearing a gun,” said Luke Tweezy, crossing one 
skinny knee over the other. 

“But Mr. Harpe is,” pointed out Judge Dolan. 

Jack Harpe jackknifed his long body out of his chair, which 
was placed directly in front of an open doorway giving into 
an inner room, crossed the floor, and placed his sixshooter 
on the mantel-piece. 

“What is this,” he demanded, returning to his place “a 
trial?” 

“Not a-tall,” the Judge made haste to assure him. “Just 
a li’l friendly talk, thassall. I’m a-lookin’ for information 
and I’ve an idea you and Luke can give it to me.” 

“I’d like a li’l information my own self,” grumbled 
Luke Tweezy. “W^hen are you gonna make the Dales 
vacate?” 

“All in good time,” the Judge replied with a wintry smile. 
“I’ll be getting to that in short order. Here comes Kansas 
and Jake Rule now.” 

“What you want with the sheriff?” Luke queried, uneasily. 
“He’s gonna help us in our li’l talk,” explained the Judge, 
smoothly. 

“I think I’ll get my gun,” observed Jack Harpe. 

He made as if to rise but sank back immediately for Racey 
Dawson had suddenly appeared in the open doorway behind 

304 


THE LAST TRICK 305 

him and run the chill muzzle of a sixshooter into the back of 
his neck. 

“Never sit with yore back to a doorway,” advised Racey 
Dawson. “If you’ll clamp yore hands behind yore head. 
Jack, we’ll all be the happier. Luke, fish out the knife you 
wear under yore left armpit, lay it on the floor and kick it 
into the corner.” 

Luke Tweezy’s knife tinkled against the wall at the mo- 
ment that the sheriff, his deputy, and two other men entered 
from the street. The third man was Mr. Johnson, the Wells 
Fargo detective. The fourth man wore his left arm in a sling 
and hobbled on a cane. The fourth man was Swing Tunstall. 

“What kind of hell’s trick is this?” demanded Jack Harpe, 
glaring at the Wells Fargo detective. 

“It’s the last trick. Bill,” said Mr. Johnson. 

At the mention of which name Jack Harpe appeared to 
shrink inwardly. He looked suddenly very old. 

“Take chairs, gents,” invited Judge Dolan, looking about 
him in the manner of a minstrel show’s interlocutor. “If 
everybody’s comfortable, we’ll proceed to business.” 

“I thought you said this wasn’t a trial,” objected Luke 
Tweezy. 

“And so it ain’t a trial,” the Judge rapped out smartly. 
“The trial will come later.” 

Luke Tweezy subsided. His furtive eyes became more 
furtive than ever. 

“Go ahead, Racey,” said Judge Dolan. 

Racey, still holding his sixshooter, leaned hipshot against 
the doorjamb. 

“It was this way,” he began, and told what had transpired 
that day in the hotel corral when he had been bandaging his 
horse’s leg and had overheard the conversation between 
Lanpher and Jack Harpe and later, Punch-the-breeze Thomp- 
son. 

“They’s nothing in that,” declared Jack Harpe with con- 


306 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


tempt, twisting his neck to glower up at Racey. “Suppose 
I did wanna get hold of the Dale ranch. What of it?” 

“Shore,” put in Luke Tweezy. “What of it? Perfectly 
legitimate business proposition. Legal, and all that.” 

“Not quite,” denied Racey. “Not the way you went 
about it. Nawsir. Well, gents,” he resumed, “what I 
heard in that corral showed plain enough there was some- 
thing up. Dale wouldn’t sell, and they were bound to get 
his land away from him. So they figured to have Nebraska 
Jones turn the trick by playin’ poker with the old man. When 

Nebraska ^They switched from Nebraska to Peaches Austin, 

plannin’ to go through with the deal at McFluke’s from the 
beginning. And that was where Tweezy come in. He was 
to get the old man to McFluke’s, and with the help of Peaches 
Austin cheat Dale out of the ranch.” 

“That’s a damn lie!” cried Tweezy. 

“I suppose you’ll deny,” said Racey, “that the day I saw 
you ride in here to Farewell — I mean the day Jack Harpe 
spoke to you in front of the Happy Heart, and you didn’t 
answer him — that day you come in from Marysville on 
purpose to tell Jack an’ Lanpher about the mortgage having 
to be renewed and that now was their chance. I suppose 
you’ll deny all that, huh?” 

“Yo’re — ^yo’re lyin’,” sputtered Luke Tweezy. 

“Am I? We’ll see. When playin’ cards with old Dale 
didn’t work they caught the old man at McFluke’s one day 
and after he’d got in a fight with McFluke and McFluke 
downed him, they saw their chance to produce a forged re- 
lease from Dale.” 

“Who did the forging?” broke in the Judge. 

“I dunno for shore. This here was found in Tweezy’s 
safe.” He held out a letter to the Judge. 

Judge Dolan took the letter and read it carefully. Then 
he looked across at Luke Tweezy. 

“This here,” said he, tapping the letter with stiffened 


THE LAST TRICK 


307 


forefinger, “is a signed letter from Dale to you. It seems to 
be a reply in the negative to a letter of yores askin’ him to sell 
his ranch.” 

The Judge paused and glanced round the room. Then his 
cold eyes returned to the face of Luke Tweezy who was begin- 
ning to look extremely wretched. 

“Underneath the signature of Dale,” continued the Judge, 
“somebody has copied that signature some fifty or sixty 
times. I wonder why.” 

“I dunno anything about it,” Luke Tweezy denied, feebly. 

“We’ll come back to that,” the Judge observed, softly. 
“G’on, Racey.” 

“I figure,” said Racey, “that they’d hatched that forgery 
some while before Dale was killed. The killing made it 
easier to put it on record.” 

“Looks that way,” nodded the Judge. 

“Lookit here,” boomed Jack Harpe, “you ain’t got any 
right to judge us thisaway. We ain’t on trial.” 

“ Shore you ain’t,” asserted the Judge. “ I always said you 
wasn’t. This here is just a talk, a friendly talk. No trial 
about it.” 

! “Here’s another letter. Judge,” said Racey Dawson, 
i The Judge read the other letter, and again fixed Luke 
I Tweezy with his eye. 

j “This ain’t a letter exactly,” said Judge Dolan. “It’s a 
I quadruplicate copy of an agreement between Lanpher of the 
88 ranch, Jacob Pooley of Piegan City, and Luke Tweezy of 
Marysville, parties of the first part, and Jack Harpe, party 
of the second part, to buy or otherwise obtain possession of 
I the ranch of William Dale, in the northeast corner of which 
property is located an abandoned mine tunnel in which Jack 
I Harpe, the party of the second part, has discovered a gold- 
|| bearing lode.” 

( “A mine!” muttered Swing Tunstall. “A gold mine! 
j| And I thought they wanted it for a ranch.” 


308 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


“So did I,” Racey nodded. 

“I know that mine,” said Jake Rule. “Silvertip Ransom 
and Long Oscar drove the tunnel, done the necessary labour, 
got their patent, and sold out when they couldn’t get day 
wages to old Dale for one pony and a jack. But Dale never 
worked it. A payin’ lode! Hell! Who’d ’3-’ thought 
it?” 

“Old Salt an’ Tom Loudon got a couple o’ claims on the 
other side of the ridge from Dale’s mine,” put in Kansas 
Casey. “They bought ’em off of Slippery Wilson and his 
wife. Them claims oughta be right valuable now.” 

“They are,” nodded Judge Dolan. “The agreement goes 
on to say that Jack Harpe found gold-bearing lodes in both of 
Slippery’s old tunnels, that these claims will be properly re- 
located and registered — I guess that’s where Jakey Pooley 
come in — and all three mines will be worked by a company 
made up of these four men, each man to receive one quarter 
of the profits. This agreement is signed by Jack Harpe, 
Simon Lanpher, and Jacob Pooley.” 

“And after Pooley was arrested,” contributed Racey Daw- 
son, “the Piegan City marshal went through his safe and 
found the original of this agreement signed by Tweezy, Lan- 
pher, and Harpe.” 

“Luke Tweezy held up his hand. “One moment,” said 
he. “ Where was the agreement signed by Harpe, Pooley, and 
Lanpher found?” 

“In yore safe,” replied Racey Dawson. 

“Did you find it there?” 

“Yep.” 

“What were you doing at my safe?” 

“Now don’t get excited, Luke. I happened to be in the 
neighbourhood of yore house in Marysville about a month 
ago when I noticed one of yore back windows open. I 
snooped in and there was Jack Harpe working on yore 
combination with Jakey Pooley watchin’ him. Jack Harpe 


THE LAST TRICK 


309 


was the boy who opened the safe. . . . Huh? Shore, I 

know him and Jakey Pooley sicked posses on my trail. Why 
not? They hadda cover their own tracks, didn’t they? 
But that ain’t the point. What I can’t help wondering is why 
Harpe and Pooley was fussin’ with the safe in the first place. 
What do you guess, Luke?” 

Evidently Tweezy knew the answer. With a yelp of 

|] “Tried to cross me, you !” he flung himself bodily upon 

I Jack Harpe. 

In a moment the two were rolling on the floor. It required 
four men and seven minutes to pry them apart. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 

M olly dale looked at Racey with adoring eyes. 
“How on earth did you guess that the Bill Smith 
who robbed the Wells Fargo safe at Keeleyville and 
killed the agent was Jack Harpe?” 

“Oh, that was nothing. You see, I’d heard somebody 
say — I disremember exactly who now — that Jack Harpe’s 
real name was Bill Smith, that he’d shaved off his beard and 
part of his eyebrows to make himself look different, and that 
he’d done something against the law to some company in 
some town. I didn’t know what company nor what town, 
but I had somethin’ to start with when McFluke was let 
loose. I figured out by this, that, and the other that Jack 
Harpe had let McFluke loose. Aw right, that showed Jack 
Harpe was a expert lock picker. He showed us at Marysville 
that he was a expert on safe combinations. Now there can’t 
be many men like that. So I took what I knew about him to 
the detective chiefs of three railroads. He’d done somethin’ 
against a company, do you see, and of course I went to three 
different railroad companies before I woke up and went to the 
Wells Fargo an’ found out that such a man as Jack Harpe 
named Bill Smith was wanted for the Keeleyville job. So 
you see there wasn’t much to it. It was all there waitin’ for 
somebody to find it.” 

“But it lacked the somebody till you came along,” she told 
him with shining eyes. 

“Shucks.” 

“ No shucks about it. That we have om ranch to-day with 
310 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 311 

a sure-enough producing gold mine in one corner of it is all 
due to you.” 

“Shucks, suppose now those handwritin’ experts Judge 
Dolan got from Chicago hadn’t been able to prove at the 
time that the forgery and the fifty or sixty copies of yore dad’s 
name were written by the same hand, ink, and pen? Sup- 
pose now they hadn’t? What then? Where ’d you be, I’d 
like to know? Nawsir, you give them the credit. They 
deserve it. Well, I’m shore glad yo’re all gonna be rich, 
Molly. It’s fine. That’s what it is — fine — great. Well, 
I’ve got to be driftin’ along. I’m going to meet Swing in 
town. We’re riding south Arizona way to-morrow.” 

“Arizona!” 

“Yeah, we’re going to give the mining game a whirl.” 

“Why — why not give it a whirl up here in this country?” 

1 “Because there ain’t another mine like yores in the terri- 
i tory. No, we’ll go south. Swing wants to go — been wanting 
j to go for some time.” 

“Bub-but I thought you were going to stay up here,” per- 
I sisted Molly, her cheeks a little white. 

I “Not — not now,” Racey said, hastily.“ So long, take care 

of yoreself.” 

He reached for her hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then 
picked up his hat and walked out of the house without 
another word or a backward look. 

* 4 ! * * * * * 

“W^at makes me sick is not a cent out of Old Salt,” said 
Racey, wrathfully, as he and Swing Tunstall walked their 
horses south along the Marysville trail. 

“What else could you expect?” said the philosopher Swing. 
“We specified in the agreement that it was cows them 
i jiggers was gonna run on the range. We didn’t say nothin’ 
I about a mine.” 

“‘We?’” repeated Racey. “‘We?’ You didn’t have a 


312 


THE HEART OF THE RANGE 


thing to do with that agreement. I made it. It was my 
fool fault we worked all those months for nothing.” 

‘‘What’s the dif.f*” Swing said, comfortably. “We’re 
partners. Deal yoreself a new hand and forget it. Tough 
luck we couldn’t ’a’ made a clean sweep of that bunch, huh.^” 
“Oh, I dunno. Suppose Peaches, Nebraska, and Thomp- 
son did get away. We did pretty good, considerin’. You 
can’t expect everything.” 

“Alla same they’d oughta been a reward — ^for Jack Harpe, 
anyway. Wells Fargo is shore getting mighty close-fisted.” 

“Jack did better than I thought he would. He never 
opened his yap about Marie being in that Keeleyville gang.” 

“Maybe he didn’t ku'^w for shore or else knowed better. 
Bull was in that gang, tc,,, and Bull got his throat cut. If 
Jack had done any blattin’ about Marie and Keeleyville he 
might ’a’ had to stand trial for murder right here in this 
county instead of going down to New Mexico to be tried for a 
murder committed ten years ago with all that means — evi4 
dence gone rusty with age and witnesses dead or in jail them-* 
selves most like. Oh, he’ll be convicted, but it won’t be first 
degree, you can stick a pin in that.” 

“I wonder if he did kill Bull.” I 

“I wonder, too. Didja know who Bull really was, I 
Swing . . . Marie’s brother. Yep, she told me about I 

it yesterday.” I 

“Her own brother, huh.^^ That’s a odd number. Alla 
same I’ll bet she don’t miss him much.” 

“Nor Nebraska, neither. Hell never come back to bother 
her again, that’s a cinch. Who’s that ahead?” 

“That” was Molly waiting for them at a turn in the trail. 
When they came up to her she nodded to both men, but her 
smile was all for Racey Dawson. He felt his pulse begin to 
beat a trifle faster. How handsome she was with her dark 
hair and blue eyes. And at the moment those blue eyes that 
were looking into his were deep enough to drown a man. 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


313 


“Can I see you a minute, Racey?” said she. 

Swing immediately turned his horse on a dime and loped 
along the back trail. Left alone with Racey she moved her 
horse closer to his. Their ankles touched. His hands were 
clasped on the saddle-horn. She laid her cool hand on top 
of them. 

“Racey,” she said, her wonderful eyes holding him, “why 
are you going away?” 

This was almost too much for Racey. He could hardly 
think straight. “I told you,” he said, hoarsely. “We’re 
i goin’ to Arizona — minin’.” 

She flung this statement aside with aj'erk of her head. 
“You used to like me, Racey,” she told him. 

He nodded miserably. 

“Don’t you like me any more? ' she persisted. 

He did not nod. Nor did he speak. He stared down at 
the back of the hand lying on top of his. 

“Look at me, boy,” she directed, 
i He looked. The fingers of the hand on top of his slid in 
between his fingers. 

“Look me in the eye,” said she, “and tell me you don’t 
love me.” 

“I cuc-can’t,” he muttered in a panic. 

“ Then why are you going away ? ” Her voice was gentle — 
gentle and wistful. 

“Because yo’re rich now, that’s why,” he replied, thickly, 
the words wrung out in a rush. “ You’ve lots o’ money, and 
I ain’t got a thing but my boss and what I stand up in. How 
can I love you, Molly?” 

“Lean over here, and I’ll show you how,” said Molly Dale. 


THE END 



THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 


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